


Phenomenon

by RidiculousMavis



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F, Heavy use of Scientific Licence, It's like artistic licence but for science, The X-Files AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26882590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RidiculousMavis/pseuds/RidiculousMavis
Summary: Héloïse is assigned to the X-Files division of the FBI alongside eccentric paranormal investigator Marianne.
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 179
Kudos: 325





	1. Insignificant Little Blue Planet

A path dotted with trees and street lamps winds past lawns and campus buildings. It's dark, and the solitary figure has his head down. When the low, droning sound starts he looks up, closing his eyes against the blinding flash of light.

* * *

**September 10, 1993**   
**FBI Headquarters, Washington DC**

Héloïse's Division Chief approaches her desk, tentative, flinching in advance of her frown. "How are you?" he asks gently and Héloïse really needs everyone to stop doing that.

"Very well, sir." Brisk, business-like. Please continue.

"The Assistant Director would like to speak to you."

She gets the sense she ought to pack her desk. It does not require a box or anywhere near that. Pen, notebook, lunchbreak reading. And that is her drawer cleared out.

"Thank you, sir."

He nods and she keeps her eyes on the floor as she leaves the bullpen.

* * *

The Assistant Director gestures for Héloïse to sit. "How are you?"

"Well, thank you, sir."

"I understand you've had a tough time -"

"Not at all, sir." The interruption is allowed if it saves the AD the agonies of having to sympathise. He's been on a sensitivity training course probably. But he's of a time when no one spoke about these things, just got on with the job.

"Good, excellent." Correct, he is relieved. "Now, we are sorry to see you leaving the Violent Crimes Unit though this is perfectly understandable given the circumstances. Until you get assigned to a more permanent office there's a little job we think you will be able to help us with."

She's listening.

"We need someone with a firm hand, a rational mind, and, well, a good grip on reality."

Héloïse does not feel this describes her but has been putting a lot of effort, these past few weeks, into pretending this is indeed still her. She ought to feel good about it. She does not.

"Have you heard," the AD continues, "of the X designation?"

"The X-Files? Yes, I've heard of them. Unexplained phenomenon." The X-Files were almost a Bureau myth, certainly a joke, though that was about all she knew.

He has her file open on the desk. Casually leafing through. "I'm sure I don't need to tell someone with your rigorous scientific background that there is a good deal of scepticism as to this project and why it has been allowed to remain in the Bureau eating up manhours and resources. I'd like to put the matter to rest."

Héloïse has a strong suspicion in which direction he would like the matter resolving but says nothing for now.

"So, that's your assignment. A few weeks tagging along on the X-Files. All we want is your fair-minded opinion on the cases, on their scientific legitimacy, on the quality of the investigation. A few reports on that, to pass the time, while we arrange your next posting. An agent of your calibre should be able to handle it easily."

"So to clarify, sir, I will appear to be assisting on the X-Files while covertly reporting on my findings?"

"Do you think you can manage that?"

It would make more sense than her actually being assigned to a wild project like the X-Files. "Yes, sir, of course."

Her file is flipped closed.

* * *

Stopping out of the office Héloïse realises she has no idea what happens next.

"I'm Sophie - Agent Pileggi." Agent Pileggi looks up at Héloïse very seriously, clutching some papers. "So, are you staying?"

It made it sound as though there had been an option. Had there been? Not really. Which Héloïse had expected. Which was how it worked. You did as you were told. "Seems so."

Sophie hands over an envelope that Héloïse stuffs into her satchel. "I'll show you to the office." She moves off toward the stairs.

"Have you worked on the X-Files long?" Héloïse asks.

"I've only been here a few weeks." A new graduate from the Academy. All wide-eyed deference still. "I don't really work on the X-Files. I handle some of the admin. Which is not Marianne's strong suit."

Admin, or, at least, procedures, regulations, rules, is very much Héloïse's strong suit. This could be unwelcome, heralding a renegade, or it could be an easy way to spend a few weeks helping catch up on some paperwork.

"Marianne?" Héloïse wishes she could think, quick enough, of a better way to get clarification on that, but cannot.

"Special Agent Mulder, I mean, yes," Sophie replies. The other agent. With questions looming over the 'quality of the investigation' and 'legitimacy of the cases'. Héloïse is almost intrigued.

"Marianne is... well, you'll see. She's great, but, yeah..."

Héloïse and Sophie descend the stairs into the basement. All the little offices are hidden away down here. Scuttling around bleary-eyed and stressed out: the agents who had lost their way somehow. Not Héloïse, she reassures herself. She is here on a mission. She will be gone soon enough.

They negotiate the hallway filled with filing cabinets, broken chairs, shelves of office supplies.

"Next door on the left," Sophie says. "I won't go in. Last time it was all pictures of bloated dead cows and I've only just had breakfast." She's gone before Héloïse can thank her for the image.

Héloïse knocks on the door. Nothing happens. She knocks again. Then goes in.

The room is chaotic. Her eyes slip from the disorganised bookshelves to the desks heaving with papers, microscope, beige PC, boxes. There are maps, posters, newspaper clippings on the walls, piles of books on the chairs, what looks like divining rods on the floor. Directly opposite is a figure bent over a filing cabinet, back to the door.

Héloïse clears her throat.

"Is that the atlas I ordered? Can you just drop it there, please?"

"No," Héloïse says.

"Oh." The figure turns, holding a folder. A little smile. Hair everywhere. "Hi."

"Special Agent Mulder? I'm Special Agent Héloïse Scully."

"Call me Marianne." She tosses the file onto a table so full of other files it causes a small landslide so that the cornice formed collapses and drops to the floor. It is watched with bemusement.

"I'd rather we kept it more professional."

"I'm not running around calling us Mulder and Scully. Running isn't really my thing, in general."

And here Héloïse had been thinking it had something of a ring to it.

"Come on in. I was going to tidy up for you but then..."

Héloïse waits for the excuse.

"... I didn't. Sorry. I will. First, the tour. This is the filing cabinet." She gives it a little pat. "Containing the infamous X-Files. The X stands for unexplained, in itself inexplicable. Except that they used to be under U and when it got full they went to X. I guess the V-Files sounds a bit suspect," Marianne muses.

Then continues. "Um, desks, one of which will be yours, soon, I promise. Reference materials," waving a hand over the bookshelves and, "more... stuff..." at the boxes. "And yeah, that's it. Bathroom further down the hall, ours is generally pretty quiet. I'm guessing you know where the cafeteria is. So that's the important parts."

Héloïse surveys the room, including - a not nervous, exactly, but something approaching it - Marianne. "We could do some tidying now."

"We _could_. _Or_ ," Marianne brandishes yet another file, "we could go on a little road trip."

* * *

Héloïse is driving and Marianne sits in the passenger seat trying to stop the various files sliding off her lap. "So," she says, pausing to lunge. "A local college kid was reported missing by his roommates but turned up A-okay two days later, denying he'd gone anywhere. Fine, you think, college kids. Who hasn't gone on a two-day bender in college." Héloïse is about to protest this but Marianne continues. "I went missing for two days but that was because I got stoned and read The Midwich Cuckoos and didn't dare leave my room. _But_ , before college, this particular kid lived in Lathstead where there have been reports of disappearances before."

"Were missing persons reported there recently?"

"They were not." Marianne seems content to leave it there.

Héloïse is not. "So why are we..?" she prompts, not adding the 'driving five hours to Ohio' part.

"All these reports and bits and pieces don't make sense. It's been bothering me for ages. There's some sort of pattern but I - we - need to get closer to see it properly. And this kid going missing makes me think we've got another wave coming."

The 'why' then is a hunch. Driving five hours on a hunch. Héloïse rubs at her sore shoulder. "You think other people went missing too?"

"Exactly. I think there are regular, multiple abductions and no one is talking about it or even reporting it half the time."

Wait. "Abductions?"

"Ah, okay, that's a bit of a theory creeping in there."

A bit of a theory creeping in before they had even set foot in the town. Héloïse does not like the sound of this.

After a while of concentrating on the empty road, Héloïse asks, "Is this what your cases usually are?"

"Oh, I get all sorts."

"And do you usually turn up uninvited?"

"Well, yes, quite often. People are generally reluctant to admit something bizarre or supernatural or extraterrestrial -" Héloïse is not thrilled to hear these words but feels she ought not be surprised, "or otherwise unexplainable is happening."

She tries to broach the matter. "Could it be possible they are reluctant to admit it because it's just not true?"

Her eyes flick from the road to where Marianne is looking at her. Perfectly calmly and unruffled by the challenge. "You don't believe in aliens?"

"Of course I believe in the probability of intelligent life elsewhere in this infinite universe. The Drake Equation. And, frankly, if we are the height of civilisation the galaxy has to offer I would be very upset. But do I believe they come to this insignificant little blue planet in spaceships and steal people? No."

"Huh. Well, that's at least fifty per cent more than I was expecting so I'll take you as a win."

Héloïse bristles. She is not supposed to be taken as a win.

"How did you end up with this then? I don't need a partner - no offence - I've been perfectly happy going it alone for over a year now."

The subterfuge slips in far too easily, almost comforting. "Clearly you've got a lot on and someone thought you use some assistance."

"Where were you before?"

"Violent Crimes Unit."

"Something happened." There is no question in Marianne's tone.

"Lots of things happened," Héloïse says with a shrug.

"Okay." Marianne is gentle and it is unwelcome, unwarranted, undeserved.

Héloïse spins the conversation back around. "But you actually _want_ to work on the X-Files."

"I do."

"Why?"

"My parents were abducted by aliens."

Héloïse thinks she probably deserves that, having been so unforthcoming. "That's fine, you don't have to tell me."

Marianne does not defend herself.

"We'll take a break soon. Stretch our legs. Nearly halfway." Héloïse finds herself needing to say. Before they can descend into an uncomfortable silence she turns on the stereo.

"I'm not really one for classical music," Marianne comments, going back to her reading.

Héloïse does not turn it off.

* * *

**Lathstead, Ohio**

Pulling up to the low, concrete bunker of a sheriff's department, guarded at the front by an impressively stern stone gentleman on a plinth, Marianne becomes animated once more. "This is how it will go: hello, we're FBI, we are here to help; we don't need your help, this isn't your jurisdiction, get off my lawn. Basically."

"Every time?"

"Pretty much."

"Yet you keep showing up."

"I absolutely do not get the message." Marianne smiles and there is something irrepressible in her, almost delight at knowing she will be unwelcome.

Héloïse is ushered into the building - Marianne holds the door - and takes a look around quickly. Plastic potted plant gathering dust, world-weary deputy sat at the front desk reading a magazine, TV on low, mismatched chairs with no one waiting on them.

"How can I help you ladies?"

Bad start. Very bad start.

Marianne slides in ahead of Héloïse. Pulls out her badge. "We are from the FBI, my name is Marianne, and I would very much like to meet your boss."

The deputy peers at Marianne's badge, glances at Héloïse.

"You got here fast, that report didn't go off more than an hour ago. Come from Cleveland?"

Héloïse exchanges a glance with Marianne. Was this new news?

"We're very on the ball." Héloïse adapts with practised ease.

"He's not going to be pleased to see you."

"People rarely are," Marianne agrees. "But we really do need to see him."

"Come on then," the deputy sighs, swipes his card and holds open the door behind the desk. Héloïse sidesteps the rising hand attempting to guide her through.

Through into the inner sanctum. The cubicles, the smell of slightly burned coffee, the chatter that drops to a low hum as they enter.

A man stands from where he had been leaning against a table and Héloïse scans him. Mid-fifties, angular. He scans her and Marianne in turn, a microexpressive moment of irritation at this infringement, then his face settling into benevolence.

"Hello there, Sheriff Gray. To what do we owe the pleasure?" His hand is outstretched.

Héloïse lets Marianne go first. "Marianne, with the FBI. This is -"

"Agent Scully," Héloïse says, shaking too. One single shake, excessively firm. This is the first test. Héloïse always goes in strong. Her other hand is already showing her badge.

"I'm sorry to hear you've had some disturbances," Marianne says, sounding indeed actually sorry.

"Thank you for your concern, it's appreciated but I don't think we need to trouble the FBI. Only letting the coroner know and we're waiting on a pathologist."

"Yes," Héloïse says quickly, sensing her opportunity. A missing person is one thing but a dead body is quite another. "I'll save some time: I can perform the autopsy."

At which point both Marianne and the sheriff look at her. "I'm a medical doctor," she says. "Pathology is an interest of mine."

* * *

Héloïse, begowned, makes her incisions. Marianne sits on a stool, elbows on the metal table, chin on her hands. "How does a _medical doctor_ ," and she says the words amused, teasing, "end up working in the Violent Crimes section of the FBI?"

Héloïse peers over the top of her goggles. "As opposed to a PhD. Of which there are plenty in the Bureau."

"Granted, fine. And in answer to the question? Or is that classified information?"

Héloïse turns her attention back to the mostly unremarkable internal organs in front of her. "Patching people up in hospital and throwing them back out onto the streets didn't appeal."

"No, this is far more appealing, I can see that."

"The Bureau likes a wide skill set. Doctors come in handy in all sorts of ways." And all it takes is a little fudging of the Hippocratic Oath.

"As you are currently proving."

Héloïse wants to ask Marianne's story but, given the earlier evasion, she refrains. Marianne clearly senses the same evasion on Héloïse's part too. They are establishing boundaries. A project that could take some time. Longer than Héloïse has.

"He had a heart attack," Héloïse announces. "There's more to do but it seems very likely to be the cause of death."

"And are heart attack cases normally brought to the morgue at the sheriff's office rather than, I don't know, say, a hospital?"

The scalpel pauses for a moment. "No. They are not."

Marianne flips through the man's case file. "Would you like to guess where our unfortunate friend was for the past two days?"

"No. But you can tell me."

"Not at home. If he disappeared too - _if_ , I know - could the heart attack be related to that?"

"There's a chance it was caused during such an incident. I'll do a blood screen obviously. But looking at the state of his arteries I'd say this was a long time coming. The stress might have precipitated it. More likely it's natural causes."

"So we've got an unreported, unconfirmed disappearance resulting in one probably coincidental death. I should talk to his wife."

Héloïse removes the heart and takes it to the scales.

"Yeah," Marianne repeats, looking distinctly grey, "I think I'll go talk to his wife."

* * *

Without Marianne's chatter Héloïse can get on quickly. It's almost enjoyable, the methodical work, the regimented step-by-step procedure of it. She finishes up the paperwork, collects the samples and heads back upstairs. Again the main office hushes as she enters. She's unsurprised but unused to this sort of suspicion and scrutiny. Violent Crimes were generally unimpeded by other forces, or a welcome presence. Here she is from out of town, from the federal government, about two decades younger than everyone else, and the only woman in the room. Marianne had tried to warn her.

The sheriff is bent over a desk, looking at something, but catches her eye. She's aware there are a lot of eyes on her. "Sheriff." Just an acknowledgement.

"All done?"

A quick nod. "I need a courier for these samples."

"I'll sort that for you." He holds out his hand and gestures for them. "Going to Cleveland field office?"

"Yes." She pauses a moment. "My colleague went to interview the man's widow, whereabouts would that be?"

He scribbles down an address, she thanks him, and leaves.

* * *

Having driven around town for an hour and sure she has covered it twice without finding the right street and now with the added complication of it getting dark, Héloïse pays for her gas and picks up a local map. Back in the car looking at the map there's a knock on the window. It's Marianne.

"Hey, where've you been?" Marianne gets in, asking as though she were not the one who had gone missing.

"Looking for you. You left your cell." Héloïse points at it, abandoned on the dashboard. She'd tried calling after the first half hour, ready to admit defeat, only to hear it ringing in the glove compartment.

"I don't take it with me, you're kidding. That thing weighs a tonne."

Héloïse skips over all the protestations she could make, already aware they would fall on deaf ears.

Marianne is still talking. "How was your corpse - wait, no, not _your_ corpse - the dead guy?"

"As you would expect. I've sent some samples off."

"Did you give them in at the station?"

"Yes?"

"Okay. No, I'm sure it's fine."

"What did the wife say?"

"Said he'd been away on business for a few days. Got back, had a heart attack. Poor thing, she was really cut up about it but completely lying. I'll ask Sophie to look into the 'away on business' thing."

"So, what now?" Héloïse looks at her watch. It's nearly nine o'clock. "It's a bit on the late side for house calls."

"Bit late for anything much," Marianne agrees. "Call it a night? Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning?"

It feels necessary to take a moment. "What do we actually have here?"

"A bad feeling." The slump in Marianne's shoulders seems to indicate she knows this is all very unpromising.

Héloïse is compelled to emphasise, "A heart attack and complete denial that anything has happened. Which isn't a case. Much less an X-File."

"There's a case somewhere. Look, it's too late to drive back now. We have to stay so we might as well keep going tomorrow. Or you go back and I'll stay."

That was very much not the point of Héloïse being here. Instead she has to just relax. Let this play out, however unorthodox it might be.

So Héloïse ends her day in a drab motel room with a new job and three hundred miles from her pyjamas.

* * *

In the morning Héloïse has only a spare shirt to change into, the one she keeps in the trunk in case she spills coffee all over herself. Now she has to hope she doesn't spill coffee all over herself and drinks it carefully at breakfast. Marianne is energetic enough not to need coffee as she outlines her plan for tracking down more potential disappearees.

"So, having let Mrs Colville sleep on it I'm thinking we try again. If you come we can do good cop, bad cop. I'm sure if we keep chipping away at it something will come up."

Héloïse does not ask which cop she is supposed to be. "Making a nuisance of yourself, you mean. Adults have the right to go missing for a few days if they like. Your Mrs Colville might not thank you for finding out why."

"Making a nuisance can be handy. Someone might come forward if they know we are finally looking."

"Fine. But we have to get back to DC today."

"You've got plans?"

"Yes, to change my clothes."

"Ah, sorry about that. We'll interview some chosen-not-at-random townsfolk pulled from previous files, circle back to Mrs Colville and if we've still got nothing, head home."

The interviews range from doors slammed in faces to polite excuses. Including the mother of the young man whose disappearance precipitated all this, who did not seem at all interested in talking to them.

They keep getting lost because the town is so blandly generic and every time they think they have a landmark in their sights - a statue or a particular building - it turns out to be yet _another_ statue, not the same one.

"It's so... nice," Marianne says, looking out the window.

"And this is suspicious?"

"A little? You don't think it's just too nice?" Marianne is looking over at her now.

"Not really."

"Oh, you're from somewhere nicer." Héloïse is about to object but Marianne doesn't push it any further. She goes back to looking out the window. "The Stepford Wife vibes. Stepford Husband?"

"I did not autopsy a robot."

"I think even I might have enough medical knowledge to realise that. A very advanced Blade Runner-style synthetic?"

"A what?"

"You've not seen Blade Runner? Missing out."

"No. I've not seen it. I can still say with certainty that Mr Colville was not a scifi-anything."

"I've not had an android case before. Shame."

"If you say so." Héloïse feigns concentration on the road.

* * *

At the door of a nice enough house, Marianne knocks and Héloïse stands beside her.

A woman already worn out, steeped in disbelief and shock, opens up.

"Hi, Mrs Colville. It's Marianne, we spoke yesterday?"

"I remember."

"I wanted to check in on you."

The door opens a little more. "Thank you but there's no need."

"Is there anyone else who can be with you for a bit? A neighbour? A friend?"

"No, not really."

"Do you want us to go?"

A hesitation. "No." The door fully open now, an invitation.

"Let's sit down. We can just chat. No business. I'll get us some coffee." Marianne goes into the kitchen, leaving Héloïse adrift in the hall. Mrs Colville indicates the sitting room.

"Thank you," Héloïse says, well aware of how stiff she is. "I am sorry for your loss."

Mrs Colville only nods, bored with the platitude already.

"I'm Agent Scully -" Marianne had said no business. "Héloïse."

"Unusual name."

"So I'm told." Repeatedly.

She is offered a seat and slides into the cream leather. Finds she doesn't know what to say. Just looks around the room.

For a while after Marianne brings in the coffee there is no business. Just Marianne gently coaxing stories from Mrs Colville and even a laugh at one point. Héloïse sits, watching carefully and saying nothing.

Marianne is talking very briefly about life in Washington when Mrs Colville cracks.

"But why are the FBI here over a heart attack?"

Héloïse looks at Marianne, who leans forward. "Because I don't think that's the whole story."

Back at Mrs Colville. There's a flicker of something there. Maybe relief. "What makes you think that?"

Marianne is gentle. "I think your husband went missing. Has gone missing before. But that this time something went wrong."

The tension draws Héloïse forward as Marianne waits and Mrs Colville fidgets. "It's not supposed to happen like this."

"How is it supposed to happen?" asks Marianne, low.

"We're not supposed to talk about it."

"Perhaps it's time you do. I want to help. But I can't unless you let me."

"It's been a few times. Only ever for a few hours. This last time it was two days and when he got back he looked ill. Grey, sweating. Then he collapsed."

Marianne lets it sit for a moment. "Did he ever tell you what happened?"

"He said he didn't remember. Or, he remembered lights and flashes of things. He didn't like to talk about it."

"Who else knew?"

"No one, really. Some of the family. His sister, his mother. The same thing happens to them, I think."

Héloïse itches to get her notebook out and start writing some of this down. But Marianne and Mrs Colville are locked in something intense and the last thing she wants to do is disturb it.

"It doesn't happen to you?" Marianne asks.

"No. Never."

"Who took him, Mrs Colville?"

There's a moment where it looks like Mrs Colville is going to fight it, is going to turn away. "I don't know. It was just lights and noise and I don't know."

"Why, then?"

"In return for the house, for the kids' college funds. But now... It sounds stupid to you but who could we tell? How? Who would believe us?"

"I do. You've told me and I believe you and you don't have to be alone with this."

Mrs Colville looks helplessly over at Héloïse now. Who tries to look as encouraging as Marianne does. "It doesn't matter what deal was made or who made it or why. You can't sign your life away without knowing."

"Do you know if there's anyone else?" Mrs Colville fidgets.

Marianne sits forward again. "I think there might be. And I think they might be feeling as trapped and worried and alone as you are. I don't want anyone to feel that way. So we're going to find out what's going on and - I think - put a stop to it."

* * *

When they get in the car Héloïse does not immediately drive off. Marianne looks at her, expectant.

How is Héloïse supposed to put this in her report? The tense, almost magnetic quality of how Mrs Colville had opened up to Marianne? On the other hand, the way this whole investigation was being run on instinct. Careening from one hunch to another, chaotic idea to slapdash theory.

Being able to write her report feels a long way off, however.

Héloïse calls the lab in Cleveland only to be told they haven't received any samples. The annoyance is being vented on Marianne. Who, Héloïse points out, does not look surprised.

"I'm not even slightly surprised. This is very 'get off my lawn' behaviour."

"You think they didn't send them?"

Marianne shrugs. "Things get lost _a lot_ in my experience."

"I should have sent them myself."

"It's okay. Let's just get back there sharpish."

* * *

At the sheriff's office it is the same guy on the front desk. "Oh hi, how's it going?" He must have done something serious to deserve this.

"Good, good." Héloïse is out of small talk already. Apart from, "Who's the statue out front?"

"Joseph Gray. Great-great-whatever-grandaddy to half the town."

His tone allows for a definite conclusion to be drawn. "Not you."

"I'm from the other half of town."

"He's everywhere."

"They love him," he shrugs.

Small talk unsuccessful. "Did a courier come by last night?"

"What for?"

"I left some samples."

"I didn't see anyone. But then, it was kind of late. We're not exactly a metropolis."

She sighs. "Okay. Can I go through?" The door is opened for her again. She turns back to Marianne who is pondering the noticeboard. "Are you coming?"

"No, you go on," she replies absentmindedly, leaning in to read something.

* * *

In the main office with the not-so-surreptitious stares again and Héloïse finds the sheriff.

"Sheriff Gray, I've been getting a little bit of local history. You're a descendant of the town's favourite statue."

"Direct line," he says, the pride puffing his chest. "Seven generations."

Over seven generations of an average of two or three children per partnership that was anywhere between a hundred and twenty-eight and upwards of two thousand descendants of Mr Joseph Gray. Not much to be puffed up about. Though the deputy on permanent desk duty hadn't been exaggerating about half the town.

"Very nice. I need access to the body again, I'm afraid some samples have been waylaid."

"I appreciate your help yesterday."

"Only doing my job. I'll be downstairs." She takes half a step.

He takes a full one. "I think we can handle it from here, Miss Scully."

"That's Special Agent. Or Doctor. One or the other." So that was it. Lines drawn, war declared. "I have an ongoing federal investigation that you are obstructing."

"But you don't. There's nothing for the FBI here."

"There's a dead body in your morgue says different."

"Not any more. He's on his way to Cincinnati and I would suggest you get on your way home."

"You released the body."

He spreads his hands. "No reason to hold onto him."

* * *

Marianne is chatting to the reception duty deputy when Héloïse emerges. She looks up and takes a few steps closer.

"The Sheriff has released the body and it's on its way to Cincinnati, so no new sample for us." Héloïse waits for the I told you so.

"Darn," is all Marianne says before moving on. "Here, doctor, your opinion on this:" She points at a poster among the dance recital announcements, second-hand sofa bed adverts, and framed newspaper clippings. "Familial hypercholesterolmia."

"An inherited, genetic tendency toward high cholesterol."

"I guessed as much from the name." Marianne's head tilts. "A support group held at the school hall. Is it that common?"

"Can be. Cholesterol is a hot topic right now." She pauses and moves further away from the noticeboard, from the desk. "More likely if half the town is descended from the same man. Definitely makes a heart attack more likely. But not a tendency to mysteriously disappear."

"What if it's not the only genetic anomaly in town?" Marianne tugs at the door.

Across the parking lot and Héloïse ponders. "We've all got at least one potentially lethal recessive gene in us. Ideally rare enough that we never have children with someone carrying the same. Humans are horribly undiverse from a genetic standpoint, almost catastrophically so. For a million years there were only about a thousand of us. Then we left Africa in small groups. Which is before we get to helpful souls like Genghis Khan. And look at the European royal families - family, really."

"And I absolutely want to hear all about it," Marianne says. "I am fascinated."

The heat rises in Héloïse's neck. "Yes, sorry." She unlocks the car, gets in.

Marianne drops into the seat beside her. "No, it's great. You're on to something. Why Cincinnati?"

"What?"

"Why is the body being sent to Cincinnati? You determined natural cause of death. Why not release the body to the undertakers? Are they doing an inquest?"

Héloïse starts the car. Drives, though she's not sure where she is going. Away from there. "They can do what they like. The Sheriff is right, this is not our jurisdiction."

Apparently Marianne is immune to this jurisdiction technicality. "So your genetic anomaly theory -" Which is overstating it rather, but Héloïse does not interrupt. "Do you think you could find out what it is? Get the medical records? We don't even know who we are dealing with. I don't think these people are random."

"We're not going to get any medical records. I'd report anyone that gave them to us."

"An interesting investigative approach, I respect that."

A sharp glance over only reveals Marianne facing front and smiling a little.

Until she looks back and forces Héloïse's gaze to the road. "Come on. Motive. Who benefits from a body being taken away and the samples destroyed?"

Gripping the steering wheel Héloïse answers grimly, "This discounts sheer incompetence, which I have found to be in plentiful supply everywhere." Marianne is still looking at her, so she looks back, displeased. She is trying to drive though, so the staring daggers can only be in short, sharp bursts.

"A nice excuse. To stop you from finding out something else, something bigger." Marianne is becoming enthused.

Héloïse has an idea of what is coming. She asks anyway. "Of what?"

"Evidence of secret testing, of alien abductions, anything."

And there it is.

"Testing? He didn't have so much as a puncture wound on him. Okay, I'm dropping you off at the motel and going back to DC." Héloïse is done. Done with obstructive law enforcement who ought to be colleagues on the same team. Done with wild conjecture. Just done.

She turns the car round in the direction of the motel, meaning to drop it. But she is annoyed, so picks it back up again. "If aliens were actually coming to Earth and stealing people it would be the worst cover-up of all time. Everyone has heard of this nonsense."

Marianne isn't rising to it, remaining calm and thoughtful. "And anyone who thinks about it too much is dismissed as a crank. It's an open secret. The sort of lie that is so convincing because it's ninety-nine per cent truth."

This, Héloïse decides, is ridiculous.

When Héloïse pulls up at the motel and Marianne gets out of the car there's a moment of hesitation nonetheless. She's supposed to be keeping an eye on the situation, on Marianne. Marianne who seems to have a habit of wandering around at night without her cell phone dreaming up plots of alien abductions and is faced with a very unsympathetic sheriff. Versus Héloïse recycling underwear and feeling they are on a wild goose chase. The two predicaments are not similarly matched. And this is her assignment.

Fine.

Héloïse gets out of the car. "What do you want to do?"

There is no triumphant crowing from Marianne at having scored some sort of victory. Instead she just says, "Thank you," quietly.

* * *

"Hello," Marianne says as she enters her motel room. Bends and picks up an envelope. She waits for Héloïse to enter and peeks out of the door for a moment before closing it.

Héloïse watches intently as Marianne opens the envelope. Out fall a few sheets of paper. Hasty slanted photocopies bearing the header Melville Pharmaceuticals referencing bank deposits, another from the town council. Marianne passes them to her. "Borrow your phone?" Héloïse hands it over with a huff that Marianne either does not notice or does not care about.

The other case files are all spread out on the ugly patterned bedspread. A little light reading Marianne is more than welcome to. Héloïse pokes at them while Marianne paces back and forth.

"Sophie, can you dig up some background on Melville Pharmaceuticals?" Pauses. "Anything. Everything. I don't know. Yeah, just call me back. Thank you. Lifesaver." Listens. "I don't know, tomorrow maybe? Okay, thanks." Hangs up.

"You think we can get this wrapped up tomorrow?" Héloïse thinks of her apartment.

"Hopefully."

What would a conclusion to this sort of case look like? Héloïse might even be missing the cut-and-dried good-versus-bad simplicity of Violent Crimes that she had always found so reductive. It looked pretty appealing right now.

She watches Marianne gazing vaguely at the mess of files on the bed, finger to her lips.

"They are all there. Everyone we need to talk to. If we could get them to talk to us. Or each other."

"You did a pretty good job with Mrs Colville. No need for a bad cop." Héloïse is trying to manufacture some sort of acknowledgement but it's a struggle.

Marianne still has that far-off look and is not listening in any case. "Oh, why Cincinnati?" she says again. "When the nearest FBI field office is Cleveland. Because they think we're from Cleveland."

"And is this also typical 'get off my lawn' behaviour?"

"No, this is more 'something very serious to hide' behaviour." Launching into action she grabs her coat.

Héloïse imagines they are off to storm the sheriff's office again. Instead, "Fancy something to eat? There's a place down the road."

* * *

Seated at the counter of the diner Héloïse peruses the laminated menu. She had been assuming takeout in her room. On her own. Now Marianne is chatting far too enthusiastically to the server.

"We're in town investigating some disappearances," she says.

Héloïse elbows her. It is ignored.

"Not heard about anything like that," replies the woman behind the counter, noncommital.

"Huh, would have thought it would be big news."

"People keep to themselves. We're a quiet town."

"No kidding."

Héloïse looks around. The tables are occupied in small groups. Families, couples, individuals. Self-contained and subdued.

"I'll have a sandwich," Marianne says.

"For dinner?" Héloïse interrupts the order.

"Last meal was breakfast so I think it's up in the air as to whether this is lunch or dinner."

It's not that there's any logic to it but Héloïse orders the same, to keep things uncomplicated and expeditious.

"So this is sort of weird, right?"

Héloïse shrugs. It's all very weird. Where to start.

"I generally find diners to be excellent sources of information," Marianne continues. That. Yes. That is sort of weird. Héloïse is reminded yet again that Marianne has been doing this on her own all this time. "This exception troubles me. I suppose it would not be appropriate to pop into a bar on our way back to the motel?"

"No, it would not."

"Probably too early anyway. I might go later."

That doesn't sound very appropriate either, traipsing around at night with mysterious disappearances going on all over the place. Héloïse is not angling for an invitation however, so says nothing.

Luckily their food arrives but provides a distraction only for a moment until Héloïse's cell phone starts ringing. "Agent Scully."

"Uh, hi, it's Deputy Keyes."

"Deputy Keyes?" Héloïse repeats, none the wiser.

"Oh!" Marianne wipes her hands and gestures for the phone. "Hey Jared," she says as Héloïse passes it over in confusion. "Heck, okay. We'll be right there." She hangs up. "They've taken Mrs Colville into custody."

* * *

At the sheriff's office Marianne waves to the guy on the front desk - Deputy Jared Keyes, apparently - and he holds the door for them.

The sheriff is deep in discussion as they walk in and then deep in a frown when he sees them.

"Sheriff, hi," Marianne says with great conviviality. "I heard you have Mrs Colville staying with you here."

"And I heard you'd become good friends." He looks them both over. "Ladies, this is not your case." As though he were talking to a particularly stubborn child. "This has nothing to do with you. I'm not sure why you are even still in Lathstead. No one wants your help."

It only gears Marianne up. "If I had a dollar for every time, honestly. I would _not_ be traipsing around here. Who am I kidding, I totally would. But I'd stay in nicer hotels, have a nicer car, that sort of thing."

Héloïse ignores her. "On what grounds was the arrest made?"

"Interesting little finding in the toxicology report. It would seem Mr Colville was poisoned." He smiles.

He enjoys waving scraps in front of them and Héloïse finds this rather positive. To be underestimated. Which Marianne's nonsensical ramblings certainly help reinforce.

"Poisoned how? When? Have you got the report?"

"Just heard it myself from our colleagues."

"Already?"

There is a tiny flinch in the sheriff, for the barest moment.

Marianne looks at her.

"There's hardly been time for tests and you've already made an arrest. If I called -" and she takes her phone from her pocket. It surprises everyone by ringing.

"It's Sophie," Héloïse says to Marianne. Who nods over her shoulder. A retreat.

"Hello, just a moment," Héloïse says as they leave the office, then the building. It's dark outside now, a little drizzle as they walk to her car.

"Okay, what did you find out?" Héloïse switches on the light, tucks the phone under her chin, and pulls out her notebook.

"Not very much, I'm sorry. Shell corporations owning shell corporations. Company is registered in Panama so very few details there."

What a mess. "Medical trials need to be registered."

"There's nothing with the REC or ISRCTN."

Marianne watches intently. Héloïse shakes her head. "Fine. Thank you, Sophie."

"Thank you, Sophie!" Marianne says loudly.

Héloïse hangs up. "We need to look into those miraculously fast tests. If that is real I'm sending all my stuff to Cincinnati from now on."

"Nothing about this is above board," Marianne says and Héloïse is inclined to agree.

"Why not sign them up to a real medical study? Why all this confusion about shell companies and bright lights?"

"With rules and oversight? Not seeing it. Maybe it's both," Marianne posits. "So weird they couldn't pass it off as legitimate. These people have no idea what happens to them. No informed consent in sight. The merest hint of the extraterrestrial is enough to get people's brains to shut off. You being a good example."

"So that's the tactic? Scare people off with aliens?" Héloïse has to admit it sounds like a good plan. Until it came to Marianne. Who was more likely to go off in the other direction.

"Double bluff."

"Aliens don't set up shell companies in Panama."

"No, there's always people involved. Like the sheriff. And whoever setup the pharmaceuticals front. And the Lathstead town council. And goodness only knows who else."

A light breaks out from the building and Héloïse looks up from her notes. A side door is open, a figure stands lighting a cigarette. She starts the engine and hits the wipers. The stereo comes on, soothing.

"The man himself," Marianne says, noting the sheriff too.

"Yes and -" but a deep whirring noise cuts her off. She looks over at Marianne, lit up by the brightest flash of light.

* * *

Héloïse blinks and shakes her head. There's a sharp pain behind her eyes. What had she been doing?

"Oh yes." Beside her Marianne is exuberant. She leaps out of the car and heads toward the building. "Sheriff?" she calls. "Sheriff Gray?" Runs back, pokes her head in. "He's gone. Did you see that?"

Shaking her head again, trying to clear some sort of fog. "What happened?"

"Don't suppose you happened to see the time? The music! Listen."

She's not sure what she's listening for but she listens all the same.

"How many tracks further along? Crap, classical. I don't know how you could possibly tell but can you tell?"

"Tell what?"

"How long we were out."

"We were 'out'? That's -" but she can. She stops the tape, rewinds it, hits play, rewinds again. Interesting. "Five minutes maybe?"

"Brilliant." Marianne is still bending over, hands on the doorframe. She taps on the roof of the car in delight. "Bright lights, lost time, missing person. Héloïse."

"What are you talking about? Get in," Héloïse instructs her. Forcefully.

She is disobeyed. "We just witnessed an abduction. Those are classic signs: missing time, the lights, the noise even."

"Probably just a helicopter. We are at a law enforcement office."

"You said it yourself: five minutes."

"It's getting late. We're tired." Héloïse has zoned out for more than five minutes before. Not ideal but not exactly unheard of.

"Come on," Marianne says and takes off back to the building.

Héloïse sighs. And follows.

Marianne bangs on the door the sheriff exited. Héloïse pokes at cigarette butts with her foot.

The door opens. "What are you -" the deputy starts to say. Before the interruption.

"Is the sheriff in?"

"No, he just stepped out."

"Yes, he did. Here. For a smoke. Where is he?"

The deputy casts his eyes about for a moment. "Must have gone home for the night. Good night." And closes the door.

* * *

"Back to the motel?" Marianne proposes.

There seemed little point them staying and antagonising the deputies further.

"I guess Mrs Colville is going to have to wait. We'll get proper tests done. Though I think we all know there's not going to be any poison showing up."

Héloïse grapples with it all. "Why? Because she spoke to us?"

Marianne shrugs. "If you're in the business of keeping people quiet you've got your tuition-fund carrot and your long-arm-of-the-law stick."

A moment to get composed. She puts her hands on the wheel. They are shaking. Quickly she puts them back in her lap, out of sight. It's late, she's tired, barely eaten, her shoulder aches.

"Hey," Marianne says next to her. "Hey, it's okay."

It is not okay in the slightest. "It was me. I told him you were speaking to Mrs Colville."

"I'm sure he would have guessed. You didn't know what he would do. You're not psychic. Unless you are. That would be really helpful, actually." Marianne smiles.

Héloïse does not.

"Do you want me to drive? It's been a long day," Marianne says. The sympathy is grating.

"No, I'm fine."

* * *

First thing the next morning and they are back at the station. Marianne has returned to Planet Earth after the excitement of last night. And she had been right. It had been a long day. Héloïse had slept like the dead, her underwear and shirt washed in the shower and dripping on the bathroom floor.

"He in?" Héloïse asks Deputy Keyes at the front desk, not slowing her march through to the back. He jumps up and opens the door.

The sheriff is in. "Get them out of here," he says at the first sight of them.

"Welcome back," Marianne says.

Héloïse is on more of a warpath. "We've got an agent tracking down the lab results - or lack thereof. It'll all come out. You weren't that careful. You didn't need to be."

"Ladies, I am not in the mood."

"Sheriff, are you feeling all right?" Marianne asks and Héloïse sees the sweat darkening his hairline.

He looks wildly between them. Sways a little. "Sit down," Héloïse commands. He does.

"It's a good thing we are here," Marianne says, looking at Héloïse.

But she is busy. Alien abductions and secret tests are one thing. A heart attack is quite another and she can handle this. She feels the sheriff's pulse, notes his breathing. "He needs an ambulance. And someone get me some aspirin."

* * *

Héloïse loiters, restless, in the hospital corridor and the vending machine coffee is not helping matters. The sheriff's wife is tucked in the family room with Marianne and Héloïse keeps a watchful eye in the corridor where the occasional nurse or doctor walks by. The door clicks behind her and Marianne comes out.

"She goes too. More forthcoming now it has almost killed her husband. Got a bit close to home. Any word on him?"

"Doing okay. I said we have to get in there ASAP."

"Agent?" A doctor puts his head around a door further down the hall. "Five minutes, that's all."

Héloïse notes the room, typical of a small hospital. The familiar, rhythmic beeps. Looks over the monitors quickly, glances over the man himself sat up in bed. Does not waste a second. "What did you -"

Marianne takes a more traditional approach. "How are you feeling?"

"They tell me I avoided the worst of it." He clears his throat. "Thanks to you."

Héloïse is as uncomfortable hearing it as he clearly is saying it. "I don't suppose your brush with mortality will make you any more co-operative?"

"You're welcome, she means," Marianne says. "Any time, here to serve, and so on."

"Or are you going to tell us you were poisoned too?" Héloïse continues. Then stops. She's angry and she's getting too involved, recognising that she needs to take a step back.

Marianne has that tone to her voice as she presses on. "We need to know who is involved. So we can check they are okay. Whatever happened to you this time was different."

"You can't stop this." His tone isn't disbelief so much as arrogance. Or disbelief at their arrogance in thinking they could. "It's been going on since Joseph Gray founded Lathstead."

"So one old dude makes a decision and everyone else is condemned by it? Actually that sounds super-plausible," Marianne admits.

"Joseph Gray made a deal for prosperity for his people. Made those hard choices. That we continue to honour."

"You and your forefathers kept it going for a hundred and seventy-odd years, it's your legacy, yes, I know," Marianne rolls her eyes and Héloïse is almost impressed. "But we are going to stop it. You have to see that. It's over."

"The town won't survive."

"They'll have a choice, finally. Some say in what happens to them and their children."

He scoffs at the idea.

Héloïse forges on. "How many people? It could easily be two thousand descendants. No." The look on his face though. "Two thousand people? In a town that small? How do you keep something like that covered up?"

"The FBI ought to know."

"Time's up!" the doctor calls from the doorway after nowhere near five minutes. Héloïse holds her finger up to him. "Come on, you know the rules," he remonstrates.

"Wait, wait," Héloïse objects.

Marianne is much more relaxed. "Leave it, Héloïse. We've got enough. Enough to start putting it right anyway."

* * *

Héloïse doesn't have much to pack in her hotel room. She is, however, missing her phone, a brief mystery resolved when there is a knock at the door and it is Marianne, lounging against the wall, holding it out to her.

"Just spoke to Deputy Keyes. They've released Mrs Colville and the former Sheriff Gray has been charged. Obstruction of justice, manufacturing evidence, all that good stuff. Go team!" Marianne grins. "And this case heads to the Justice Department. Ready?"

Héloïse is more than ready to get out out of there.

"So long, Lathstead," Marianne says as they drive past the sign. "Well, there we go. We are not alone."

"You mean aliens?"

"There's that, yes. But what you said. About people."

"What about people?"

"All related and linked and inextricable."

"Did I?" Héloïse had thought the point she made was a negative one. Marianne had managed to wrestle something else out of it.

"We might be an insignificant little blue planet but the company is pretty good on the whole, I think."

It makes Héloïse smile. A little.

Marianne yawns, stretches. "What did you think of your first X-File?"

Unclear. The jury is still very much out. But is going to have to make this into a plausible report, somehow. "Interesting," Héloïse hedges.

"Okay, I'll take it," Marianne smiles. "I kind of liked it."

"Liked what?"

"Our first X-File." There's a contentment in how obvious Marianne makes it sound that Héloïse can only avoid. Certainly cannot reply to.

"Wake me up if you want me to drive," Marianne says, shuffling down in her seat. "Oh, and I can guarantee you: it's only going to get weirder."

* * *

Safely back at home in clean clothes Héloïse sits at her laptop trying to write her report. Starting and stopping and rereading and deleting.

"While there is certainly no evidence of anything approaching the extraterrestrial and plenty of suggestion, though some as yet unproven, that it was simple human misbehaviour, the presence of Agent Mulder as a result of the X-Files prevented an innocent person being prosecuted on false charges, resulted in a corrupt law enforcement official being removed from office, and a town better equipped to handle itself in the face of any further disruption." She thinks for a moment. "Perhaps not unexplainable but certainly not unworthy of Bureau time and attention."

Let them make of that what they will. It was the truth. Not her job to anticipate what might come of it. What might happen next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ongoing thanks to my brainstorm buddy, Soph. This is all at least 50% her fault. Also thanks to [Shorts84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shorts84/pseuds/Shorts84) for the pep, X-Files discussion, and beta reading. And to everyone for being here.


	2. The Sliding Scale of Idealism Versus Cynicism

The giraffe's ears flick idly. Stood proud against the blue sky, when its head dips it is not to Savannah grasslands but to drink from a paddling pool in a suburban backyard. 

* * *

"Good morning!" Marianne is still pleasantly surprised to see Héloïse return. She returned yesterday and the day before, but still. That had been to the scintillating joys of paperwork - statements, expense accounts, mileage claims. Which Marianne suspects Héloïse actually enjoys. And Marianne receives gratefully because it looks like she's going to get a nice refund. 

Today, however, today is going to be different.

"Morning," Héloïse says with some suspicion, putting her coffee down on her - clear and tidy - desk before removing her satchel. She continues to look suspicious while Marianne waits. "Yes?"

"I got a very interesting call this morning." A little sense of occasion, building up to the moment. "Dartborough, Michigan. A bunch of weird stuff going on."

Héloïse looks less than enthused.

"Localised weather anomalies, for starters. And for the mains, several odd animal sightings."

"Okay..." Héloïse says. "Sounds like a case for the council."

"Sounds like a potential X-File. What do you say we head over there, check it out? Aren't you curious? Alien possession, chaos demons, hallucinogens in the water supply..."

The look on Héloïse's face implies it is entirely too early in the morning for this. Next time Marianne will let the coffee be drunk first. Eyes are being rolled. "Yes, fine."

"Good, because Sophie already booked our plane tickets."

* * *

**September 16, 1993**   
**Dartborough, Michigan**

About six hours after this conversation they exit the hire car in front of the police station. Héloïse folds the map, still complaining about both Marianne's driving and taste in music, as she has been doing since the airport. Marianne shades her eyes with her hand and looks up.

"Nice rainbow."

Héloïse squints in the same direction. 

It's all wrong. The blue fading to purple then red and yellow. Each arc with a gap between, the lines not quite following, some overlapping. 

"Pollution. Or dust storm." Héloïse says, because of course that's what she would say. "It's refracting the light in an unusual way, that's all."

Marianne inhales the fresh country air. Snaps a photo. "Uh huh." Follows Héloïse into the station. 

* * *

"The animals were the first thing we noticed." The police chief wears his bemusement well, leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the waste paper basket. 

"You've contacted local zoos?" Héloïse stands with her arms crossed, interrogating. Marianne sits on the corner of the desk, observing. 

"No one has reported anything and they are obliged to let us know about any escapes."

"Do you have any private collectors registered? Illegal backyard zoos you know about? Releases or escapes from those kinds of places can cause havoc."

"No. It's not just animals, though."

"No?" 

"Rainbows," Marianne whispers at Héloïse. 

The police chief points at her as if to confirm. "There's been other stuff going on and, pardon my French, but it's some weird-ass shit."

"Our speciality," Marianne says, though Héloïse glances at her with irritation. "Well, mine," she amends.

"Let's start with the first report," Héloïse says.

"Oh, this is a good one." He hands over a copy of the file.

* * *

The drive over to the house is short but notable for the sudden downpour. It thunders against the car, a real battering. Héloïse - who had insisted on driving and on turning off Marianne's music - pulls over and Marianne immediately exits. 

"Marianne -" Héloïse objects but is disregarded. 

Marianne holds the case file over her head. It affords little protection. She bends down, retrieves one of the offending items, holds it up.

"Yep," she says. "Raining lollipops."

* * *

"There are lots of reasons unexpected items could fall from the sky." Héloïse pulls up outside the address. Marianne is looking forward to hearing them. They crunched over lollipops for half a block before passing through, though not before Marianne had scooped up a handful for later. 

"Such as?" Marianne gets out of the car. 

Héloïse joins her. "Distributed by freak winds or a tornado. Cargo lost from a plane..."

"Héloïse, I know you know the exact velocity of a lollipop falling from 35,000ft and I suspect it could have killed me on the spot."

Héloïse inspects the dents scattering the roof of the car. "We're not getting our deposit back," she sighs. Now she's muttering something about Newton's Second Law and wind resistance. "We'd have to check flight paths to see if there are airports nearby: could have been on take-off or landing. It ought to be reported to the aviation authority too." 

"You can follow that one up." Marianne pauses on the doorstep, makes sure Héloïse is ready, and knocks. "Hi," she says brightly. "We're from the FBI. I think the station rang ahead?"

"Yes, come on in."

Héloïse has her badge out but this woman is more than happy to see them.

"So, what seems to be the problem?" Héloïse is stiff, on alert. 

They enter the kitchen at the back of the house. Through the - luckily large - window comes the head and neck of a giraffe. It eats cereal from the bowl of a very delighted small child, whose mother simply gestures at the situation.

Leaving Héloïse to her frowns, Marianne approaches the window to confirm that, yes, there is a corresponding rest of the giraffe stood on the patio.

"And when did this happen?" she asks.

"First thing this morning."

"Did you see it arrive?"

"No, we came down to breakfast and here it was."

"Already inside?"

"And eating cereal."

"Okay," Marianne says. "Makes sense."

Héloïse makes some sort of noise of dissent. "No one has come to collect it yet?"

"They did but it wouldn't leave. They wanted to -" and she glances at the child before spelling out 'tranquillise', "and I thought that would be better after bedtime."

Marianne keeps an eye on the giraffe as she sits at the table opposite the child. "You've made friends."

His mom continues. "Seems friendly enough but it's a little inconvenient."

He laughs. "A big incon-incon... yeah."

"I didn't know giraffes ate cereal."

"And cake," he adds. 

"It hasn't had any cake," his mom reassures them. 

"Do you like giraffes?"

The kid eats some cereal himself. "Love giraffes. What animal do you want?"

Marianne gives it due consideration. "A llama."

"Why?"

"So it can carry my shopping back from the store."

"What does a llama eat?"

"Grass, I think?"

"No, what does a llama eat?"

"Oh, right, I don't know, what _does_ a llama eat?"

"Your shopping."

"Good point," Marianne concedes. She watches the giraffe for a moment and puts out her hand to pat the thick neck. It's rather nice. Warm and solid and definitely real. "Right," she says. "Thank you for your time, sir. You've been a great help."

He nods.

She goes back to Héloïse and his mom.

"You should wash your hands," Héloïse says.

"The pair of them are sharing a bowl," Marianne says in her defence.

In her own defence the mom just shrugs.

"Is there any giraffe precedent here?" Marianne asks. She washes her hands. 

"He does love giraffes," his mom agrees.

"And breakfast? And giraffes at breakfast?"

"It's a game he plays."

"And now here we are." Marianne observes the scene for a moment. "Have you taken photos?"

"Yes, do you want copies?"

"No, but I think he is going to. Good luck with the removal tonight. Do you mind if we have a quick look in your garden before we go?"

* * *

In the garden Marianne walks the perimeter. Héloïse stands on the lawn, looking up into the sky. For aeroplanes, probably.

Marianne enjoys it, enjoys Héloïse contorting herself to find these explanations. Explanations that everyone else would say are rational but that, to Marianne, ignore a whole host of amazing possibilities. Are the result of a narrow worldview. But such worldviews are not changed overnight, or if they are it tends to be so unpleasant as not to be wished on anyone. In the meantime Marianne will use it, enjoy it. 

"How did it get in?" Marianne asks her.

"What?"

"How did the giraffe get in?" Marianne clambers onto the fence to peer over. "There's another yard back here. No sign of damage." 

Héloïse glances at the back half of the giraffe. "It could take these fences." 

"That's a lot of fences," looking from side to side. She drops down.

"The lure of cereal," Héloïse says and if Marianne didn't know better she'd swear there was a little smile.

* * *

On the way back to the station, the long straight road past the Dollar General, Héloïse keeps looking up through the windshield but the real event is taking place out Marianne's window.

"Stop the car!"

Héloïse does. "What now?"

Marianne gets out and takes a few steps. Behind her, Héloïse does the same. They gaze beyond the field.

"Is that a -" Héloïse doesn't seem to be able to quite get there. 

"A very, _very_ large tortoise, yes."

It ambles happily through the next field, dragging enormous legs. It must be easily the size of a truck.

"Now that will do some damage. What's on its shell?"

Marianne narrows her eyes. "Looks like trees."

"I'm calling it in." Héloïse fishes her phone from her pocket.

Waiting for the police to arrive Marianne fetches her binoculars and sits on the hood of the car. Héloïse made some objection but the deposit is well and truly gone by now and the FBI won't miss it. 

Eventually Héloïse sits too and they pass the binoculars back and forth watching the cops try to corral the tortoise. With the reference of human bodies it is not quite as large as Marianne had thought. Still way too large.

"How big is the biggest tortoise?" Marianne muses. "Four foot?"

"That big," Héloïse says, indicating the monstrosity before them. "If it is indeed a real tortoise. Imagine if we called the police on a well-camouflaged campervan."

"Well-camouflaged camper or world record-breaking tortoise. I know which I'm rooting for."

Héloïse sighs and lowers the binoculars. "I think this might take them a while and there are certainly more productive ways we could be spending our time."

"Less fun, though."

* * *

The police station is a riot of ringing telephones. 

Héloïse is on one of them, delivering a blank stare past Marianne and into the middle distance. "A unicorn? And it had wings? I will make a note. Thank you for your call."

As soon as she replaces the handset it starts to ring again, which she dismisses with a flick of the wrist. 

Marianne leans back in her chair, looks at Héloïse carefully. "You just saw a giraffe eating breakfast in suburban Michigan. Why are you drawing a line at unicorns?"

"Because neither unicorns nor Pegasi nor unicorn-Pegasi hybrids are real. Giraffes are real. Unlikely but real." 

"Eyewitness account."

"Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable."

Marianne chews on her pen. "Ursula K. LeGuin says that truth is a matter of the imagination." 

"And you agree?"

"Yes." 

Héloïse appears to give this rather more thought than Marianne had anticipated. "Reality is a matter of interpretation," she proposes, though it sounds like a lot like a conclusion.

Still, Marianne is intrigued, presses forward. "How so?"

"You know the old 'If a tree falls in the forest'?"

"And there's no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

"Well, does it?" 

Marianne laughs. "No?" Héloïse is unnervingly direct and almost intimidating. These flashes of enthusiasm though. These are nice. 

"No. It creates a change in air pressure, that's all. It's the ear that receives it and the brain that interprets it as sound."

"Right. Your brain is always trying to fix the world - reality - for you. Finds patterns, pareidolia. Turn it into a story, give it meaning, humanise it." 

Héloïse nods, seems encouraged. "So this is just a misinterpretation." She makes it sound obvious. Marianne can feel the frustration behind it. 

"Maybe." Frustration which Marianne is only compounding by refusing to play by the rules someone like Héloïse sees as utterly non-negotiable. 

Frustration which Marianne is not intentionally provoking so tries to move on. "It's an interesting mix," she ponders. "A lot of animals but not exclusively animals. Very odd and very localised weather phenomena and/or dropped air freight -" she concedes to Héloïse who gives her a dark look in return for her generosity. "There's no need to answer phones, we're practically tripping over this stuff in the street. Let's just get back out there." 

* * *

"Why do we need the police?" the kid asks, eyes wide. 

"We're not the police," Héloïse says. "We're from the Federal Bureau of Investigations."

The children are about ten, old enough to object to being called children. They are red-cheeked, runny-nosed, eyes shining with exertion, having been interrupted in their snowball fight. The front yard and sidewalk are two feet deep in snow and a pleasant, picturesque fall wafts around them now. Beyond that is a clear road, clear blue skies. 

"September is a bit early for snow," Marianne observes. 

"I always want a snow day," one of them says.

"You live here?"

"Yes."

"When did it start snowing?" Marianne looks up. A thick white cloud tinged with yellow lies low above them. 

"This morning when I woke up."

"But you did have to go to school." The range of effect is too small.

"Sucks," she says sadly. Marianne can only agree. 

Héloïse walks off and Marianne hears her calling the weather service. She turns back to the friends. "Any of you had weird stuff happen today?"

"I got Christmas presents and one was a BMX." 

"Okay. Anyone else?"

"My dad came and picked me up early from school and we went to the movies."

"Oh, nice."

"I haven't seen him in two years."

Oh, tragic. Okay. "Thanks everyone. Enjoy the snow."

She rejoins Héloïse, now on the other side of the road and looking across at the happy scene. "I've got to say," Marianne does indeed say, "this is shaping up to be one of my favourite X-Files."

"The meteorologist said it's not particularly outrageous to have a snowstorm up here in September, even in otherwise clement weather."

"Stationary snowstorms hovering over one house? Where lives a kid who dreams of snow days?"

Héloïse looks as though she is going to ignore the provocation. She does not. "You think the children are manifesting their dreams, in the fantasy sense?"

"Looks like it to me."

"It's a coincidence."

"It's a heck of a lot of coincidences." At some point a lot of coincidences has to start meaning something more concrete and Marianne begins formulating an analogy she thinks Héloïse might understand. Something involving a murder investigation would work, probably. 

A snowball flies over toward them. Héloïse sidesteps it neatly. "Hey!" 

Marianne crouches and watches the snowball melt into the paving slab. She smiles up at Héloïse. "They're just kids, Héloïse. Let them be." Héloïse does not appear to take offence but does not appear convinced either. She only stands with arms crossed and an air of impatience.

Marianne had not been asked if she wanted a partner on the X-Files. There had been no negotiation and about an hour's warning. She had been perfectly happy flying solo. At liberty to take whichever cases, pursue them by whatever means. Answering to herself. Well. Herself and the division chief and the section chief and the Assistant Director whose office she was constantly being hauled into for a dressing down. But in the moment she had freedom and autonomy and that was worth a lot. 

"What?" Héloïse asks sharply. Because she is still being stared at. 

And if she could have chosen someone else to join the X-Files her first loyalty would have been to Sophie, who was clearly interested, but still too junior. There is no way she would have chosen Héloïse. But Marianne appreciates that while Héloïse is entirely against it all she is still willing to help hash things out. 

"I'm glad you're here."

Héloïse shuffles. Presses her fist into her shoulder. Looks generally uncomfortable. 

Anyway, "This has to end before some kid starts thinking about their favourite movie this year and we all get eaten by dinosaurs." Marianne ponders. "This is kids, right? I've just had a horrifying idea."

Héloïse now looks appropriately wary. 

"I think we have to speak to some teenagers." She points over at a gaggle sat on a bench. 

"Good luck with that." Héloïse eyes them. 

"I was thinking you. You're more authoritative." Bad cop. 

"No." The refusal is swift and commanding. "It was your idea."

Still, Marianne tries to nudge Héloïse forward but she isn't having any of it. 

"Okay, okay, jeez. Hello!" She strides forth and makes contact. "I'm Marianne, I'm with the FBI. Just wondering, has anything especially weird happened to any of you today?"

At which point all four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles amble down the road. 

"A lot of weird shit has been happening today," one of Marianne's new friends says, simply noting it, zen-like. 

Marianne watches them go. "True. But to any of you specifically? I don't know... gained two inches overnight? Got a Stratocaster? Skin cleared up? Parents suddenly decided to go away for the weekend?" She's trying to think what teenagers might want. It's been a while and her teenage ambitions had been modest. 

"No. My little sister got a pony." Several start complaining about their younger and assumedly preferred siblings so that Marianne spends the next ten minutes on reassurances and sympathy until Héloïse clears her throat. 

"But no one here? Or your friends at school?"

Shrugs and mutterings. "Okay, thank you everyone. You hang in there. Look after each other."

She returns to Héloïse. "Well, they were lovely!" 

Héloïse grunts. "Helpful?" 

"I'm beginning to suspect some sort of age cut-off."

"Pre-pubescent? There is plenty of literature about the psychology of being a teenager. It's a state that was barely recognised until the Fifties. There were no 'teenagers' for most of history."

Marianne is thinking less societal. "Kids inhabit a more liminal place. Closer to the veil."

It is countered. "There are senses that depreciate with age. Most likely is that the joy that younger children find in their unexpected good luck is mitigated as we get older. An appreciation of the little things gets swept away by stress and anxieties."

"So we've got a town of easily pleased children and grumpy everyone else?"

Héloïse shrugs. "I think you've got a town full of coincidences and unexpected occurrences with one section of the population intent on enjoying it. There's only one elementary school? Some teachers are doing something right."

"You think we should be looking at the school?"

"For engendering an admirable optimism. Not for clues."

But Marianne is thinking about clues. "Tomorrow, the school."

* * *

Declaring it time for sustenance they wander down the road past a flock of flamingos on someone's lawn.

Marianne browses the aisles of the convenience store. Proper snack selection is key, she tells Héloïse and expounds on her theory while Héloïse waits, everything about her posture exuding disapproval. 

Leaving the store they come to an abrupt halt. Tied up to the bicycle rack: a llama.

"Héloïse..." Marianne breathes. 

"No," Héloïse refuses. 

Héloïse marches back into the building and Marianne follows, eager to see what will transpire.

"FBI! Listen up! I need to speak to the owner of the llama." Héloïse brandishes her badge and yells at the shoppers.

There are no takers. Marianne goes back to visit her llama, who noses at her pockets.

"Do you bite?" There is neither confirmation nor denial. "You're not eating my shopping though."

Héloïse returns. "No one has admitted to the llama. So we'll just wait."

"Are we staking out a llama? Good thing we've got snacks."

So they stake out the llama for an hour. Héloïse calls animal control but they are inundated with mysterious animal sightings and visits. At which point she despairs. "Clearly someone saw it wandering and tied it up here. Maybe they even called it in."

"We're not leaving them here. We'll take them to the police station."

Héloïse eyes it with evident distaste. "You take it. It stays far away from me."

With Héloïse several feet off to one side they make halting progress toward the station. An entire fleet of ice cream trucks drive past into the sunset. 

* * *

At the station the llama joins seven Rockhopper penguins also waiting to be collected.

"Where did they come from?" Marianne asks.

The desk sergeant is completely overwhelmed. "I've got it written down somewhere but honestly we're so swamped if you want a list of everything that's happened since you were here you'll have to make it yourself."

"We could do that," Marianne says. Turns to Héloïse. "Repair back to the motel? Try to find some patterns in all this?"

"I thought we already covered looking for patterns in random events?" Héloïse says, but accepts the armful of files all the same. 

* * *

In Héloïse's motel room there are files now spread out on the table, on the floor, on the bed. Marianne wanted to stick them on the wall but Héloïse is concerned about another bill for damages. 

Marianne takes a break, stands and looks out the window for a while. Braced to watch a circus or somesuch. Instead, "There's a very disproportionate amount of clowns out and about tonight."

"Clowns?" Héloïse comes over.

"The horror movie kind, yes." 

"What, in your experience, is a proportional amount of clowns to non-clown population on any given night?"

"That isn't Halloween? Less than this."

One skulks by right now. Hunched over, appearing to stick to the shadows. 

"Unsettling," Héloïse seems to allow. "But not illegal. In fact, I think the most illegal thing going on here is all these exotic animals being kept without permits because there's no record of giraffes or penguins or tortoises for miles. There is a llama ranch, however, so that's one mystery solved." She holds up one of the documents she has been poring over. 

It does not feel particularly solved. "I wonder how they are getting on down at the station." She wonders about the giraffe. If it was okay and how the kid was going to feel tomorrow morning without it. Whether it would just be back, somehow. 

"Did you want to go back?" Héloïse pauses a moment. "Did you want to..." and she gestures out the window in general. 

Marianne is sure she hears a wolf howling. 

"Yes." It's just a general uneasiness. Clown-related, probably. 

Héloïse pats herself down and not for the first time Marianne's eyes snag on the holster under her jacket. This time Héloïse notices. "Where's yours?" she asks.

"I don't. I never have." 

The displeasure flashes across Héloïse's face. "You are firearms trained?"

"Of course. I just don't want one."

"I worked violent crimes," Héloïse says. "I definitely want one," and they head out into the night.

* * *

Out in the world, Marianne has the distinct impression she is being watched. Not by Héloïse's quick, alert eyes. Something deep and ponderous. And in the darkness there's no way to disprove it. 

A high pitched squeal of laughter sends a chill down her spine. There are no flamingos now, no bouncy castles or ice cream trucks or pony rides being had. The main street is dark, infrequently lit by street lamps, crowded with shadows. 

Almost the first house they come to has a woman standing outside with one child in her arms and another clinging to her leg. 

"What's happened?" 

"There was something in the house," the woman gasps. "In the kids' bedroom."

Some _thing_. Marianne needs to know Héloïse heard that but she only looks grim and tight-lipped 

A man in pyjamas with a baseball bat stands uncertainly at the threshold of the house. 

"Sir, step aside," Héloïse says with so much condescension Marianne nearly laughs. 

"I should -" He swallows. The bat trembles. 

"It's fine," Marianne says. "We're with the FBI." Whatever that means. Most of the time it is no good thing except when the chips are well and truly down and the thing is in your house, apparently. 

Héloïse pulls her gun and it makes him relax. It only makes Marianne tenser. He does not insist on accompanying them. 

They step into the hall and Marianne flips the light switch. It doesn't work. "No, of course it doesn't. I am _not_ checking the circuit breakers in the basement because I've seen this movie." 

"What movie?"

"Any horror movie."

She fumbles in her backpack. Héloïse only needs to reach into the inside pocket of her jacket to pull out a compact little torch. Marianne finally finds hers. 

The beams swing about as they locate the stairs. Which creak horribly as they make their way slowly up. 

Marianne might object to carrying a gun but she has no objection to putting herself directly behind the woman with the gun. In this particular scenario. 

"I'd like to formally retract my statement about this being my favourite X-File. It is very much not." 

"Shh," Héloïse just says and Marianne thinks this is probably wise. 

In the upstairs hall the curtains move gently. Héloïse rounds on them. "The window is open. Something got in. A cat, a raccoon." 

"If you say so." 

Héloïse tries the light switch up here. They are still in darkness. 

Marianne should have taken the guy's baseball bat. Her torch is pretty chunky though. She sweeps it along the hall. She catches legs but it's an abandoned pair of trousers draped over a chair. 

They pause at the first door. Héloïse takes position by it, very professional. She nods to Marianne who can just about see. Swings the door open and Héloïse enters. "Clear," she says, though Marianne is already right behind her. 

"If you think it's a cat why are we going full SWAT team?" 

Héloïse does not reply. Marianne had not really expected her to. It's a kids bedroom cluttered with books and a games console and intricate Lego models. "Good taste," she says about the film posters but Héloïse is still ignoring her. 

Back in the hall. A console table looms out of the darkness. "This hall has way too much furniture in it." 

The next door and they burst into the master bedroom. Héloïse pokes the closet doors open. Marianne looks under the bed. "Here, kitty," she croons. "Or raccoon. Or whoever you are. I won't let Héloïse shoot you, don't worry." 

"If you think I'm being excessive, why are you hiding behind me?"

"Because I don't think it's a cat." Nor does Héloïse, not really. Marianne knows. She might be telling herself it's most logically a cat but a deeper part of her is scared. People get like that. Afraid of the very things they spend so much time telling Marianne can't possibly be true. 

Into the hall. Héloïse peers around the doorframe before they leave. 

The bathroom. A storage closet. Now they are next to the window at the end of the hall. A tree casts unhelpful shadows. Moving across the walls. Whispers of something. 

"It's the tree," Héloïse says. Marianne thinks she does not sound especially convinced. "It's just the tree." 

The final room. The younger kid. Marianne opens the door, Héloïse marches in. The closet door cracked open. The one thing standing between a child and the unspeakable horrors of the night. The gaping maw beckoning their minds into nightmares. 

Marianne shines her light in. The subliminal outline of a person in the hanging clothes and shoes below. Jostling and unsettling. 

"Clear," Héloïse says. "We can get the family back in."

* * *

"There's nothing there," Héloïse tells them, out on the driveway. 

"It's gone," Marianne puts in. A subtle difference but an important one, she feels. "You can make the report tomorrow to the police but something tells me they are a little busy right now." 

A patrol car wails past, with a fire truck not far behind. The family hurries inside. Marianne hears several locks and a bolt being used. 

Héloïse still has her gun out as they continue down the street. 

Stopped at one house by the shouting and banging going on inside. Knocking at the door and met by a man with alcohol on his breath. Héloïse giving him a serious talking to while Marianne sits with his daughter out on the front step. Hearing her terrors until the police arrive. 

"It's been a long, strange day," Héloïse says. "Nerves are frayed."

Dark shapes circle a house over the road. An owl hoots with an ominous tone. 

They walk to the house fire and then past. There's nothing they can do to help, the scene is well attended. Marianne still shudders. 

"Or they are linked. Newton's _Third_ Law."

Héloïse might be smiling. "The equal and opposite reaction."

"You get your hopes and dreams. You get your nightmares." 

There's just a shake of the head. 

"You're still out here, though. Why? If you think it's all random?"

"My concern is that panic is contagious and everyone is going to go off the cliff together like lemmings." She looks around at the apparently still and quiet houses. Appearances could be deceiving. Héloïse seemed to recognise that at least.

An ambulance is parked outside another house. Héloïse checks that everything is under control and they continue their aimless wandering, their self-imposed patrol. They ask some pointed questions of a guy in a clown costume, send him on his way. Chase off some youths trying their arms and aims teepeeing a house. Keep walking. 

* * *

In the middle of the road drifts a girl dressed only in a nightgown, her feet bare on the asphalt. 

Marianne puts a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Where are your parents?"

She looks up with large, frightened eyes. "They've gone. I can't find them."

Everything ebbs out of her. "Come here." The kid is way too big to be picked up but Marianne does so anyway. 

"Which is your house?" Héloïse asks. 

The girl points and Héloïse starts up the path. 

"Héloïse, wait."

"You stay here with her."

Marianne hears Héloïse calling in the house. She's back a few minutes later. "You can't stay out here. We'll get you to the police station. You can wait for your parents there." 

"What if they don't come back?"

"They will," Marianne says. 

Beside her Héloïse is tense. Looking sharply around with her gun in both hands. Pointed at the floor. But ready. "No signs of foul play," she says, low. 

The kid shakes in Marianne's arms. "It's all right," she murmurs. "You're all right."

* * *

They make it back to the police station as the sun rises. The girl is tucked into a side room waiting to have her statement taken. Marianne sits with her for a while then goes to find Héloïse and a hot drink. The aftermath of the night is still being dealt with, plus the new dawn brings strange new occurrences that Marianne overhears snatches of. 

When she comes back the room is empty. "Oh," Marianne says, standing in the doorway. 

Héloïse, right behind her, rounds on the nearest officer. "Where's the child we brought in? I know it's busy but you can't misplace a child." Starts getting herself worked up, that fearsome glare and scathing tone. 

"No, it's okay." Marianne says. Tries to put her hand on Héloïse's arm. As solid and real as the kid had felt. As the giraffe had felt. Real. But from somewhere else. 

Marianne can't explain it to Héloïse. Héloïse who believes all this to have some logic behind it. "She must have gone home," she says because Héloïse needs something to make sense of, however tenuous.

Héloïse considers it for a moment. "Just walked home? It wasn't far. Her parents might even have picked her up. It's chaos in here still. I'm not surprised no one noticed."

"There you go." Marianne manages a smile. "Come on." 

* * *

Marianne insists they return to the motel. Héloïse looks tired. They have been up all night so it's hardly surprising. But she's sort of grey-looking and spent the whole time prowling around with her gun out so could probably do with a rest. 

"Get some sleep. A couple of hours at least. Meet you at ten?"

Héloïse nods, heads into her room. 

Marianne unlocks her door. Opens it. Closes it. Heads back into town. 

* * *

Marianne arrives at the school gates as the teachers begin arriving and manages to get herself invited in. 

"Quite the day yesterday, huh?"

She gets inundated with stories. And this volume is the problem. It makes it hard to discern. Patterns are washed out by too many variables. Ordinarily, Marianne likes to get back to the root, the first event. Which she hasn't been able to identify. The giraffe might have been the first reported but lots of people then reported 'first thing in the morning' incidents. Hard to tell what actually happened first. Might even have been simultaneous. Which doesn't help. 

"How about the not-weird stuff?"

Someone fetches the incident book from the principal's office. Amongst the more bizarre there was a scuffle in the canteen and three kids who turned up late for school covered in mud having been playing in the woods. 

"I'll take it," Marianne says.

Troy, Sarah, and Des are duly intercepted at the school gates. They are skittish, shooting glances at their teacher while Marianne tries to debrief them. Luckily something starts kicking off elsewhere in the playground and the adult supervision departs.

"Okay," Marianne says. "Real talk. Did you discover anything yesterday morning?" 

They look between each other. Assessing her.

She needs to make an offering. "I'll deputise you as official honorary FBI agents, which means we are a team."

They nod. "We were digging," one of them says and another adds, "And we found a really cool rock."

"Great. Where?"

"We'll take you."

"Even FBI agents have to stay in school when they are nine. Draw me a map."

The map is drawn in her notebook while the kids play with Marianne's badge. She gives them a salute as she leaves, which they seem to like. 

She should have brought the car but hadn't wanted to risk Héloïse noticing it missing, thus noticing her missing. But it's not that far to the copse and Marianne manages to decipher the key to the map and identify trees and landmarks. Except she doesn't need to. She can feel it. 

A warmth, a comfort, emanating from over the bank. She scrambles through the already-falling leaves and slides down the other side. A sizable hole has been dug and she admires the kids' determination in this. A professional excavation. Off to the side sits the 'really cool rock.' It's pockmarked and metallic looking. A meteorite. A shooting star. 

From her backpack Marianne extracts a roll of tinfoil. Head pulsing all the while. If it's electromagnetic she can Faraday cage it and switch off whatever is going on. 

"Marianne." A voice behind her. She closes her eyes. "Marianne, sweetheart."

"I'm not turning around," she says. Her voice feels booming in her head but comes out as barely a whisper. "I can't." 

Her name again. 

She opens her eyes and - taking care not to touch with bare hands - starts wrapping the meteorite up. She'll know it has worked if the voices stop. Before they do, she pauses. 

"You're not real. Even if I turned around and saw you and touched you, you wouldn't be real. But I haven't forgotten." 

She covers up the last patch of the rock, wraps the foil around a few more times. It's quiet. 

"Mom? Dad?" 

Nothing. 

She turns. 

Nothing. 

* * *

Marianne has about five minutes to get changed out of her muddy clothes before ten o'clock will have the entirely-too-punctual Héloïse knocking at her door. Her rucksack is now enormously heavy but the walk back into town showed no signs of anything interesting or fun. Which is sort of sad, until she remembers the pre-dawn pandemonium. 

And there the knock is. Héloïse looks a bit brighter and Marianne does her best to pretend she too has had a refreshing nap and not been awake for twenty-eight hours now. 

After an uneventful breakfast they call in at the police station where all is serene finally. 

Héloïse looks pleased. "Catharsis achieved. The Ancient Romans used to have festivals specifically to..." and Marianne smiles. Is told all about Samhain and mumming and so on on the drive to the airport. 

By the time they get on the aeroplane she is feeling much herself again. Tomorrow she will send the rock off to some researchers she knows at the University of Florida. They won't report any strange goings-on. Tomorrow she will write her report. She looks over at Héloïse who is scribbling notes. She wants to ask what Héloïse would have seen, wants to tell her what happened in the woods and test out some theories on her, with her surefire scepticism. 

Marianne goes to sleep instead. 

* * *

The key is in the lock when Marianne smells it. Can't have left the oven on - that would require having turned it on in the first place. Ever. Wrong kind of smoke anyway.

She throws the door open so it bangs. Stands on the threshold. Tries to formulate something pithy but can't come up with anything before seeing someone sat in the chair. 

"You can close the door." A low voice. The pinpoint of a lit cigarette in the darkness.

Marianne flips the light switch. Nothing happens. "Not again," she complains. "This can't be anything good."

Despite this she closes the door. Blue light from the street gives the place enough of a glow. Marianne can traverse it in the dark anyway. She sits on the couch, pushing the duvet to one side.

"Your home is in some disrepair. I thought the place had already been turned over." 

"Don't break in if you are going to complain. I suppose you'll be wanting a cup of coffee too?"

She can't see very much but thinks there might be some amusement. She's not been murdered yet so things are going well.

"You've been busy. Ruffling feathers. But you need to be careful, Marianne. There are powerful forces at play here. More rests on this than you will ever know."

As vague as these threats generally are. "I've heard it all before. Are you with the FBI?"

A draw on the cigarette. "That's not important." 

It feels at least a little bit important. "In Lathstead the sheriff implied the FBI was involved. In that cover-up or others, I don't know."

"You think the Bureau has never been involved in anything like that?"

"Not the one I wanted to work for."

It earns a nod. Then a sigh as the woman stands and moves to leave. 

Silhouetted in the apartment door. The curls, cigarette delicately balanced, refinement oozing in her posture. "I'll see you again soon, Marianne."


	3. Sad Witches Down in the Bayou

The moonlight shines in through the window. The curtain floats lightly in the breeze. The calm of the dark house is disturbed by a banging on the door.

"Rick! Hey, Rick!"

The pounding pops the door open and the visitor enters cautiously. "Rick? You home?" He glances at the door, confused at it being open. Steps further in with a look of determination.

He turns on the light and freezes. Sprawled out on the living room rug: a body.

"Shit!" On his knees beside the body he rolls it over. The swollen, grey face of his friend. "Oh, shit." Something moves in the throat, in the cheeks. With a croak. Out of Rick's mouth a toad struggles to be freed. Plops out onto the floor. Croaks again. Hops away.

* * *

**September 23, 1993**

**Brashere, Louisiana**

Héloïse sits on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a corridor. Marianne next to her. Deputies wander past every so often.

One of them comes through the door. "He'll see you now."

Inside, Héloïse introduces herself. Then introduces Marianne because she is apparently incapable of appropriately introducing herself with even a modicum of professionalism.

Marianne picks up now. "We've been asked to have a look at a recent case you've had. Rick Chevie?"

"Not a case," the sheriff says, shaking his head.

A man found dead, a toad lodged in his throat. Local law enforcement had - correctly - decided the toad arrived post-mortem and that the death, while unexplained, was not criminal. Convincing Marianne of this was proving difficult.

"And before? It's not the first time you've had amphibians crawling out of bodies."

He sighs. "You probably just got here and haven't had much chance to look around. I hope you brought your waders. Spitting distance out that door is the Brashere bayou, crawling with pretty much every amphibian - and reptile - you can imagine. I'm surprised living people aren't coughing them up."

"Have they?" Marianne becomes animated.

"No!"

"Any falling out of the sky?"

"From trees occasionally." He taps at the hat on his desk.

Héloïse shivers. Hadn't brought an umbrella. Or waders. Had, at least, developed the habit of keeping a few changes of underwear and a shirt in her satchel.

"Cool."

The sheriff eyes them in turn. "What part of the FBI did you say you were from?"

"The X-Files. We - I - we? - look into unexplained phenomena." She gives Héloïse an apologetic shrug.

"The X-Files? The goddamn witch finally went and did it." It's more resignation than hostility. "And do you often take cases on the recommendation of members of the public?"

"Why wouldn't I? Here to serve."

Héloïse has, in fairness, wondered much the same thing. She is unsurprised by Marianne’s answer. Adds something of her own. "We're here to make an impartial review of the evidence. Not for or against anyone."

"She speaks! I thought you were just here to be the strong, silent type."

"Oh, she is," Marianne agrees. "I think she's mostly here to keep me out of trouble but I'm not very co-operative on that score. Anyway, tell us about Tara Harris."

"Lord, that woman. Half the town think she's the best thing since sliced bread, the other half want her on a bonfire."

"Any actual evidence or are we bringing out the ducking stool?" Marianne enquires amiably.

"Listen, I don't like it but I thought this was your gig? If people start thinking there's some devil-worshipping nonsense happening here we are going to have a goddamn riot on our hands. You know stuff about the occult, right?"

"Stuff, right," Marianne agrees.

"Well then knock yourselves out. I've got, you know, actual police work to do."

* * *

"I like him," Marianne says out in the corridor.

"I'm not sure the feeling is mutual."

"He can join the club. At least it doesn't look like he'll get in the way. I'm putting that down to your exemplary people skills."

"Until you discover his team is overlooking a serial killer." This is taken as some sort of endorsement or agreement. Marianne lights up. "I'm just saying -" which Héloïse is going to quash - " _if_ you do there might not be cooperation."

"But there will be..." Marianne opens the door with a flourish, "justice!"

Héloïse wants to ask - well, the list of things Héloïse wants to ask Marianne is extensive. She settles for, "You think I'm here to keep you out of trouble?" as she walks through into the office.

"You're here for something and it's not your passion for the paranormal."

Héloïse ought not be skirting so close to this. She deflects. "If it was to keep you out of trouble I would be fired immediately."

"That's the spirit. Now, I need to see a man about a frog."

* * *

"Where is the toad that got picked up from the Rick Chevie scene?" Marianne asks the first deputy she comes across in the office.

"Where is it?" He is confused. "I guess I can find out?"

"We need a herpetologist to have a look at it. Herpetology: study of reptiles and amphibians."

"Why? Don't need to be an expert to tell it was a toad." He is even more confused.

Héloïse realises, looks at Marianne. "To determine if it's a native species. Or even if it lived in the wild."

Receives a nod in return. "Which I suspect, poor thing, might only be determined on the dissection table."

It feels horribly like an invitation. "I am not autopsying a toad."

* * *

The inevitable toad autopsy takes place in return for a cup of coffee. In the office kitchen, in lieu of any real facilities. Héloïse is too busy having high school science lab flashbacks to object in earnest.

"Of course this means the toad can't be tried for murder itself," she points out. It lies, splayed, in front of her.

Marianne smiles. "Not had a good old-fashioned animal trial for a few hundred years."

"Toad stomach contents," Héloïse announces. "Crickets."

"And the cricket stomach contents?" Marianne hops down from the worktop.

A cricket autopsy had not been negotiated. Nonetheless, Héloïse tweezers one out, Marianne leaning in close. "Grubs. Of some variety."

Marianne takes some photos. A woman comes in with a mug. Héloïse need only look in her direction before she departs swiftly.

The toad, crickets, and grubs go off to a Bureau technician with a very niche speciality. Who Héloïse rather envies right about now.

* * *

Instead of tucking herself away in a quiet, air-conditioned lab somewhere, Héloïse is pulling up outside a single storey house sheltering under a tree. Wind chimes hanging off the porch tinkling gently as she and Marianne approach the door.

"Special Agent Scully," she announces as it opens, holding up her badge.

"Hi, I'm Marianne," from beside her.

"Marianne, welcome. Hi. Come in."

The living room is crowded with books and plants, patterned throws over the couch and chair. A small table, two chairs. Incense. Which starts the countdown for an incoming headache.

The woman, one Tara Harris. A fan of Marianne's apparently.

"Thank you for coming. It's a relief, to think someone might finally be taking this seriously."

"We're going to check it out," Marianne says. "See what we can do." Diplomacy, almost.

"Do you think I might be right?" Tara has other ideas, so compelling that she had written to Marianne. And now here they are.

"I think it's worth looking into."

Héloïse takes in the room. Glances over the bookshelves. Crystals, candles, some sort of shrine. The tension creeps in around her left temple.

The situation seemed to be that in her official capacity as fortune teller and tarot card reader Tara is also an unofficial social worker. The only notables in her police file are how often she ends up assisting enquiries or giving evidence in cases.

Tara's concern is that the deaths of Rick Chevie and others before him were not accidental. That they were murders. The words "dark arts" are mentioned and the headache makes its way to Héloïse's eye socket.

Conveniently, a perpetrator is already in mind. "Oh, I know exactly who did it," Tara says confidently, which is exactly what Héloïse feared. "Bill Randeau."

There's a pause. Héloïse realises it's for her. "And what makes you think that?"

"People come to me because they need something. Because they are missing something or want something more. We talk and we read the cards and it helps. Gives people a sense of something. But not everyone is content with that. And if they aren't, if there's something specific they want, they go to Bill Randeau."

"Such as? Something violent? You're not a priest, you have to report any credible threats."

"I tried to. I'm trying to. Here, wait." She jumps up and hurries from the room.

Héloïse glances over at Marianne. Who shrugs.

"So in your 'occult stuff' opinion, is she a witch?" Héloïse asks. Quietly.

"If she says she's a witch then she's a witch. No one is asking for proof you're a Catholic. You just are. She's Wiccan."

Before Héloïse can get stuck into the Catholicism thing Tara is back, holding out a bottle. "This is what I'm up against. He's selling love potions."

"Cool," Marianne says, then retracts under the attention it gains. "Not cool at all. Can I see?" She inspects the bottle. A small, old-timey looking thing with a proper cork stopper.

Héloïse watches. "Love potions aren't real."

"They certainly aren't ethical," Marianne says, which far less of an agreement than Héloïse would like.

Marianne swirls the liquid around the bottle. Holds it up against the light. As if at a wine tasting. "If one were going to get clinical about it - Héloïse about it - love is just a chemical imbalance. Attraction is pheromones. Why wouldn't you be able to make that with a pill or something?"

"In the future, perhaps. Heaven help us. Something that could mimic the feeling. But not now."

Rattled, she is distracted and slow to react when Marianne removes the stopper and takes a swig from the bottle.

"What the - Marianne!"

Marianne purses her lips, head tipped to the side. "Sprite... and a bit of... I want to say Pepsi but it might be another cola. Helps to give it that muddy colour. Been given a good shaking to get it flat. Something else too, maybe a bit of hot sauce. Spicy, adds to the effect."

"That blowhard," Tara is saying. "As if it weren't hard enough to be taken seriously in this town."

Héloïse is not listening. "You had no idea -"

"I had a pretty good idea. Mixed enough drinks at the cinema to know. Misspent youth and so on. There's still plenty to send to the lab. But there was no poison in the autopsy report."

"No poison _detected_ ," Héloïse points out. Perhaps she ought to insist on taking Marianne to the hospital to get checked out. Just in case. Except that she is probably correct. "You tell me the second you start to feel anything strange. Stomach upset, headache, breathlessness, anything."

"The urge to make any romantic declarations? Or a toad crawling up my gullet?" Marianne supplies.

It could still be poison but Héloïse tries to get back on track. "There's still a question of the cause of death."

"Well, it's a placebo, right? So, what if he made someone believe they were cursed? Going to die? People are very susceptible to suggestion and believing themselves cursed could easily result in psychosomatic symptoms. Possibly even death."

"And the toad? Or newt or frog or whichever."

Marianne waves it off. "The toad is a flourish, an indulgence. But that's good. It's what is going to catch him out."

"So you don't believe in witchcraft? Is that your line?" Héloïse had begun to despair of a line ever being located.

"No, I do. I just don't believe this guy is using it."

And back to despair again.

* * *

The remaining contents of the bottle are carefully packaged up and a courier is called. Héloïse tries to explain to a confused lab tech in New Orleans that while it may well be soda it needs testing anyway and the sooner the better. Which means right now, immediately. Neglects to mention the human test subject. Who she keeps a careful eye on while they visit a few former clients of Tara's that she fears have defected to the showier and more vengeful services of Randeau. Marianne talks a lot about threes and positive and negative energy and Héloïse's head throbs.

Unsurprisingly, none of these people are willing to admit to ordering assassinations by curse or drinking love potions.

Héloïse manages to broach a subject that has been bothering her. "She could have done it. It could have been Tara."

"I know." The agreement is thoughtful.

"Some murderers enjoy being close to the enquiry. Even try to help law enforcement. She's got previous on that."

"I know," Marianne just says.

Héloïse's phone rings.

* * *

Back at Tara's house there are now two squad cars and the sheriff. He's talking to Tara, who hugs herself, as Marianne and Héloïse march up the path.

"What happened?" Marianne demands. Sterner than anything Héloïse has ever seen in her.

Across the door and part of the porch: a red streak. Héloïse approaches, leaves Marianne talking.

Crouching down. It's blood. She'd been hoping paint, from a bit further away. There's no smell of chemicals. Only the bitter taste of hospitals. Crime scenes. Bodies. Grasping, reaching.

She turns, pauses on the step for a moment. Breathes. Sees Marianne watching.

"We'll post a deputy," the sheriff says as she rejoins them.

"Nope." Marianne points at Tara. "You're staying with us tonight."

"And now you're a coven," says the sheriff. "Congratulations."

* * *

Her hand pausing on the ignition, all Héloïse wants now is to be horizontal. The sky is bleeding across rooftops. But the job is far from over.

"How are you feeling?" she asks Marianne. Turns on the stereo, needing something soothing.

"Mm?" As though it was already forgotten. "Oh, in perfect health. Hungry though. Dinner? I think our options are seafood, seafood, seafood, or Burger King."

Ideally, room service. Alone. But they have a civilian to look after and Héloïse is still waiting on the call from the lab. About Marianne. Which means she should probably stick around.

At the hotel Héloïse procures two very basic twin rooms next door to one another. Marianne departs to get seafood.

Tara sits on one of the beds. "So, what happens now?"

"Find something on TV. I'll be working." Not in the mood for babysitting.

"Okay. I do appreciate everything you both are doing for me. It's not easy -"

"Thank Marianne," Héloïse says, wrestling with her laptop to get everything plugged in. "She's the one who wanted to come and do this."

"She's really nice."

Héloïse looks over now. Has to think, put deliberation into what to say in reply. "Yes. She is a nice person. And trusting. She sees the best in people. So if you - if I find you -" and she's cracking. A warning aimed at Tara. Hitting closer to home. She turns back to the laptop, stabs at the power button, fiddles with more cables. The modem beeps and whistles at her.

The door opens. "Only me," Marianne calls brightly.

Portioning out food and real cutlery she says she nabbed from downstairs. Chatting to Tara, keeping her occupied and cheerful. Shooting over an occasional smile that Héloïse ignores, focusing on the screen.

Until her phone rings. "Agent Scully. Yes. Soda? And hot sauce. Good, thank you." She hangs up. "The lab. You're in the clear."

"Never doubted it. I'm sorry. I'm not used to... someone else being around."

"I don't want to hear about all the times you potentially poisoned yourself when alone."

"No, Roger that."

Héloïse still struggles to imagine Marianne doing this alone. In the face of the hostility. Of her own recklessness.

"Find anything good?" Marianne nods towards the desk.

Rubbing at her eyes Héloïse shakes her head. "Not really." The toad autopsy might have been a good call though. She has been reading about breeding crickets. Something to pass the time.

She could have begun work on her field report. To add to the ones the Assistant Director had been receiving with glee.

Last week, "I'm glad you're here," Marianne had said and Héloïse had gone home and written up their wild goose chase. Then the calcium-deficient mouse earlier this week. That Marianne had insisted on calling the Tooth Goblin. Weird, yes. Very weird. But not unexplainable.

Nor was this. "Even if the toad was intentionally placed there post-mortem, by whoever, it might be a murder but there's nothing paranormal about it."

"Is this the 'it's not an X-File' defence?"

"And the giraffe situation seemed to sort itself out."

"Like magic," Marianne smiles. Leans back against the bedhead. Looks over at Héloïse.

"The giraffe situation? Your jobs are so cool." Tara makes it sound like a complaint.

"Not at all," Marianne laughs, now distracted. "When I'm not up to my armpits in guano - I'll tell you that story later - I'm being threatened with closure."

"Really?" This from Héloïse, unexpectedly blurted out.

"All the time. They are constantly trying to find something to justify shuttering the X-Files. Getting me transferred or fired. I'm sure they would prefer the latter."

"Why?" Tara asks, considerably more disbelieving than Héloïse.

"Embarrassing, I think. Doesn't mean they don't need us. Even though they hardly know it. Somewhere for all the paperwork that doesn't make sense. Somewhere for the agent that doesn't make sense but might come round. Whatever they think of me. Whatever they are doing with Héloïse."

Marianne is looking at her again. Won't look away even when Héloïse meets her eye. Which is impolite. Also overpowering.

This is all news to Héloïse. That Marianne had somehow survived previous attempts. How might she feel about being the one who succeeded? Distinctly unpleasant, as it turns out. The toad, eviscerated, twisting in her gut. Knowing that whatever the result, Marianne will find out. Héloïse's throat closing around it.

She turns back to her mindless browsing, the others turn back to the TV until Tara goes to get changed.

"I'll take first watch," Marianne says. "You go get some rest."

"Three o'clock?" Héloïse doesn't turn round.

"Four."

"Three." Héloïse insists.

"Okay."

* * *

Marianne sits at the desk on the laptop, watches four o'clock come and go. A Twilight Zone rerun plays silently on the TV. She doesn't need the sound, she knows it near-enough off by heart and pauses work a moment to lean back in her chair and watch.

Tara sleeps soundly. Héloïse is next door. Even at this time of the night the highway roars with traffic. A sort of white noise she imagines people must get used to. There's a lot you can get used to, one way or the other.

* * *

She waits until the latest possible moment. Knocking gently on the door and being met with a muddled Héloïse still in yesterday's clothes. A little creased. Marianne is not going to point this out. After all, she is also still in yesterday's clothes. She holds out a coffee.

"It's... what time is it?"

"Half seven."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"I lost track of time."

Héloïse is eyeing her over the top of her cup. Doesn't believe her.

"Anyway, we're going down for breakfast."

* * *

Breakfast is interrupted by a call about the toad. Fed with domestically reared crickets, available from all good pet shops.

Marianne allows herself a little cheer which is immediately shushed by Héloïse.

"Now we get to go to all the local pet shops. What a tough morning."

"Will you need frisking on the way out?" Héloïse enquires, eyes on the newspaper.

The response cannot be immediate. "Probably. Kittens in every pocket."

* * *

The problem with crickets is that once you've seen one of a species you've pretty much seen them all. There is little in the way of distinguishing features, Marianne laments. She writes up the first of the shops for shoddy practices. After the second Héloïse and Tara get bored and stay in the car. So no frisking.

The final shop yields the result she is looking for. Asking in the most roundabout way possible. Bill Randeau buys the crickets for his bearded dragon there. And the mice for his python. "Very cool," Marianne says, no one around to disapprove. Buys some crickets, to be sent to the New Orleans field office.

* * *

Marianne takes a detour, as far off the path as she can get without sinking into the swamp. Which isn't far.

"What are you doing?" Héloïse sighs.

"Just taking a quick look. For toads. Crickets." To satisfy curiosity. Because they are here, and why not.

Tara has the disinterest of someone raised a stone's throw away. Héloïse stands on the bank with a frown. Scanning the pools, flies gathering, the Spanish moss dipping tendrils into the water. Hand on her hip. Gator Watch.

Marianne smiles. "Don't worry, if I get eaten by an alligator while on assignment it's more likely you'll be given a medal than fired."

"Funny," Héloïse says, entirely without amusement.

"Hey, what's the difference between an alligator and a crocodile?"

"Alligators are mostly found in freshwater habitats, crocodiles in saltwater. There are also noticeable differences in the shape of the jaw and colouration."

"I was... It was a joke. One will see you later, the other in a while."

"Oh."

* * *

Pausing outside the drug store Marianne uses up the final few shots on her film. The gloriously blue sky, the view over the street. Héloïse. Who scowls. But too late.

"I'm with the FBI," she tells the clerk as she pays the astronomical fee for one-hour turnarounds. "Please don't worry about the toad."

In the station house they leave Tara in the lobby while they speak to the sheriff. Corner him while he gets his coffee.

"Did you ever interview anyone in connection with the deaths? Even at first?"

"Interviewed witnesses, sure. Had a few chats. Never as a suspect."

"Any of them Bill Randeau?"

"Bill Randeau?" He looks between them and understands. "Bill wouldn't kill anybody. I've known him since he was a kid."

"That's not really a defence under the law, you know?" Marianne points out.

Héloïse is more to the point. "Anyone could kill someone, under certain circumstances."

Oh.

She says it so offhandedly. One of her science remarks. But Marianne has seen the gaping hole in her. Knows where this fits.

Now Héloïse looks to her. "Yes," Marianne manages to agree.

And she does agree, in the sense that no one can be discounted or overlooked. But has never been entirely sure she believes that everyone could. Héloïse clearly needs to believe it.

Marianne has to keep going. "We've got the toad."

"Well, I've seen cases hinge on less," he allows.

"Might we get a search warrant?" Blood, crickets, all sorts of exciting things await them.

"We can try. And I'll send some of the boys round to his house."

It feels a little bit like success.

* * *

Except.

Bill Randeau is nowhere to be found.

"Gone to ground," the sheriff says when they reconvene hours later. "And around here there's plenty of places to go missing."

His work reported he'd called in sick but he wasn't at home. He wasn't enjoying that sick day in any of Brashere's handful of bars or usual fishing spots.

"We weren't careful enough." Marianne is frustrated, picking over the last day and a half. "We should have gone on a boat trip."

"Why would we - oh. Lain low. So he didn't suspect we were onto him. Marianne, he would have noticed sooner or later." It's as though Héloïse is attempting a reassurance, which Marianne appreciates.

"And what if he does something now? Escalates. If he started doing this to, I don't know, make people think he had some sort of powers - an occult hitman - perhaps he just starts to enjoy the actual power? And gets on that highway and it takes us years more to find him."

"It looks like it's Tara he wants to keep quiet, one way or the other," Héloïse says. "And she's here."

Tara is indeed here. "This isn't quite how I imagined inviting you would turn out."

"Sorry about that." And Marianne really, genuinely is. Feels horrible about it. "Things have a habit of getting complicated fast."

"Not that complicated. We're talking about a guy who hands out love potions made of flat sodas." Héloïse drips with contempt.

"So?"

"So if it's Tara he wants..."

* * *

Having talked Héloïse out of using Tara as live bait the three of them are in the car, parked a few houses down and over from Tara's. They had gone in, switched a few lights on, snuck out again.

"I miss my llama," Marianne says wistfully. "That was fun times."

"Can't all be rainbows and lollipops." Héloïse watches intently out the window. All of a sudden though she's looking at Marianne. "You don't ever think about moving on? Doing something else?"

"No." Very simple.

"What about your career?"

"I have a career?" Marianne smiles. "News to me." Of course Héloïse cares about that sort of thing. The greasy pole at the FBI seems especially greasy and brutal and Marianne wants no part in it. Wants only to do her job. For people who need something. "Why are you here?"

"I was assigned," and while this is true Marianne knows it is not entirely true. Héloïse's gaze is gone. Back out the window.

Normally she has a pretty good handle on when people are lying but Héloïse eludes her. Why was she assigned? A punishment, probably, for the "lots of things happened" and her painfully offhand statement to the sheriff. Which explains the disapproval and irritation that rolls off her like the fog Marianne knows in her bones. Making Marianne herself a punishment, an inconvenience. Also known in her bones.

Except every thought she has, Héloïse is there, next to her, keeping pace. Not believing but trying to understand anyway.

"Look," Héloïse says sharply and Marianne is looking, though in entirely the wrong place.

"Is it him?" Roused, Tara leans forward between them.

A shape moving across the lawn toward Tara's house.

"He's actually here." Héloïse has surprise in her voice. "I never imagined he'd be so stupid."

"Maybe we should wait for backup," Marianne says, all of a sudden concerned about confronting murder suspects, which has never really concerned her before.

Héloïse's hand is inside her jacket and she is out of the car in the same movement. That might be the concern. "Call the sheriff," Marianne instructs Tara, following.

"FBI!" Héloïse yells. "Stop right there."

He does not. Marianne feels she could have anticipated this as he darts back across the lawn, Héloïse having sounded the starting gun before being properly in place.

Héloïse takes after him with impressive reflexes. Again, Marianne feels she has no option but to follow. Héloïse has a serious pace on her and is also managing to yell, "Stop, FBI!" and other pointless commands at Randeau, who is clearly not going to be stopping any time soon. He looks over his shoulder, eyes wild. A jar drops. Something hops away into the night.

Immediately having looked at them he takes a hard right and veers off between two houses. Marianne loses sight of both him and Héloïse for a moment and when she rounds the corner she is just in time to see Héloïse launch herself halfway up a chain-link fence. At which point Marianne is ready to throw in the towel. Scaling fences is an ask too far.

But Héloïse hasn't made it over. As Marianne closes in Héloïse tries again but curses loudly, dropping back to the floor. One arm crossed in front of her, the other holding it.

"Marianne, I can't -"

"Neither can I," Marianne wheezes. Except this man killed someone, probably, maybe multiple someones, and had been on his way to kill Tara, probably, so she's going to have to. She's already halfway over.

Thumps down on the other side. Over the blood rushing in her ears she thinks she hears Héloïse telling her to be careful. There's an approximately person-shaped hole in the wooden fence directly ahead and Marianne makes for it. Into the next garden, dodging play equipment.

A flash of movement up ahead. Marianne gulps in air, follows. He leaps over the next gate, mercifully low, which means she is going to have to as well or risk falling even more behind. She can't think about what her feet are doing. Tries to hold the guy in her sights and let her body - legs and lungs and all - get on with it. He's veered off down the road to the right again. Another right and he'll be doubling back so she imagines he will be doing the opposite at the crossroads coming up under the bridge, Marianne reasons as best she can given a lack of oxygen to the brain.

Slicing a fluid path over the other side of the road, cutting a very effective corner, she might have got a few paces closer to him. In his indecision, looking, realising, and turning left. Another few paces as he pauses for half a second to overturn a bin across the sidewalk that she rounds easily. It's thrown his balance off, he lurches into the road. He's going to go right again, Marianne knows. Is he aiming for somewhere? How far could he possibly get if she gave this up for the more traditional route of a helicopter and APB? She does not want to find out.

Marianne makes the turn before he does, another few paces closer. Except she has turned without looking and there's the screech of tyres. She looks now, too late, slamming her hands against the hood, looking up into Héloïse's wide eyes. No time or breath for accusations of partnercide. She pushes off against the car and continues, a "Marianne!" ringing in her ears.

A tiny alley between two houses, the sound of her feet echoing, having to use her hands to avoid crashing into the walls. It opens up into a service road behind, lined with garages. Left. Left next. So while he leaps a white picket fence on the corner Marianne swerves around the outside of it, tries to head him off. Just not another big fence, please.

He's pulling over to the left side of the road where there aren't any houses. Marianne can't see properly - the darkness and the sheer haze of her vision. Undergrowth, bushes: he dives into them and Marianne would groan if she had the breath.

Crashing through branches and the ground starts to tip away and slope down. Leaning back, trying to balance, starting to slide. Up ahead there's swearing. He's stuck on a bush, spends a moment trapped in branches. Marianne leans forward. Too far forward! Walking, and certainly running, is essentially a controlled fall anyway. Propelling the body onward, catching it just in time. She's about done running anyway. So she propels.

Bodies fly, tumbling, several more feet until the slope levels out into something wet. Her captive is shouting up a storm but he is her captive. She rolls on top, pins him down, wrestles the handcuffs on.

Looks up to see Héloïse carefully picking her way down the slope. In time to witness her triumph and not the extremely messy takedown. Perfect.

Marianne sits on the guy. Breath heaving. Wipes her forehead with her sleeve. Waits until Héloïse arrives. "What was... like the second thing... I ever said to you..." she pants. "I think I'm... going to be sick. Are you okay?"

"Am _I_ okay?"

"You hurt your arm."

Héloïse rubs at her shoulder, self-conscious. "It's fine." Looks Marianne over. "You're filthy."

"Least of my worries." She tips her head back, breathes deep. The inhalation is unpleasant. "Can you die from lactic acid poisoning?"

"Yes. But you probably won't."

"Oh, good. Probably." Her seat writhes about. "Do you mind? Okay, listen up. You have the right to remain silent -"

* * *

Uniforms turn up to take their bounty away and collect statements.

"We've got people at his house," the sheriff says. "Taking a python into evidence. Trying to, anyway. Along with some amphibious friends. It would seem I owe you an apology."

"You're welcome," Marianne says, watching Héloïse open her mouth to say something undoubtedly far more scathing.

"Heading back to Washington?"

"I think I might need a shower." Héloïse makes a vigorous nod of agreement. "And I'd like to say goodbye to Tara."

"Okay then. Well, we'll be in touch." A doff of the cap and the sheriff retreats.

Marianne leans back against one of the patrol cars. Yawns. "I'm surprised I'm still awake."

"I'm surprised you're still alive. Marianne, I..." But Héloïse only crosses her arms, frowns into the distance.

"Hey, it's okay." Blue flashing lights. Marianne covered in mud. It's okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Soph for the title. I would have called it Witches & Werewolves & Vampires, Oh My! and then had to write werewolves and vampires too, so that's good. Thanks also to Shorts for the drop-kicking assist. No toads were harmed in the making of this motion picture.


	4. The Murder Capital of West Tennessee

monster. _noun_ /ˈmɒnstə/ an animal or plant of abnormal form or structure, one who deviates from normal or acceptable behaviour or character, a threatening force

* * *

It's a pleasantly cool night so when the woman enters her bedroom she goes to the window and opens it. Looks out with a happy, contented little sigh. The moon is bright and the streetlights cast their yellow pools onto the road. As her gaze falls earthward she frowns at some unexpected shape on the sidewalk. Narrows her eyes and leans further out of the window. As the realisation hits, she screams.

Against the sound of her retreat, the body lies motionless on the path. An outstretched hand. Blood pooled around the head, staining the white hair.

* * *

**September 29, 1993**  
**FBI Headquarters, Washington DC**

There's a knock on the door and Héloïse, who has spent the last half an hour suffering Marianne watching late-night infomercials she has taped off the TV and arguing about whether the crystal healing offered constitutes fraud or medical malpractice or something else and what, if anything, can or should be done about it, calls "Yes! Come in!" with great relief.

A moment later Sophie stands in the office clutching a folder.

"Sophie!" Marianne says with delight, about to rope her into the debate until Héloïse gets in there first with, "How can we help you?"

"It's for Marianne." Holding out the file in that direction. "There's a big murder case and the Assistant Director wants Marianne out there."

Marianne's eyebrows go up. "Just me? Is it an X-File?"

"It's to help out the Behavioural Sciences Unit."

"No," Marianne gets to her feet and collects files from her desk. Some panicked attempt at tidying up. "Nope. I won't go. They can't make me."

"I think they can," Héloïse says carefully.

Sophie nods solemnly. "They definitely can."

"Okay. I quit."

Héloïse and Sophie exchange a look. Héloïse's more exasperated, Sophie's more concerned.

They wait for Marianne's flustered reorganisation to come to an end. Héloïse certainly isn't going to halt a bit of order being asserted.

Finally Marianne stills. "Where?"

Sophie says, "Paris," and Marianne looks decidedly more interested. Until the "Tennessee."

"Now?"

"Plane booked out of National. You need to have left half an hour ago." She manages to put the file into Marianne's hands.

"And no," Héloïse interrupts the words forming on Marianne's lips, "you can't just miss your flight."

"You can hold down the fort?"

Héloïse looks around at the nothingness going on. "I think I can manage."

"If you need me for anything just call. It would be okay. If you did. If you wanted to rescue me."

"Go."

Marianne swings on her rucksack but pauses in the doorway. Looks back into the room. For a moment Héloïse thinks, She knows. She knows this is the end. But Marianne flashes a smile. And leaves.

Neither Héloïse nor Sophie move for a while. As though leaving time for Marianne to exit the building before speaking.

"Why Behavioural Sciences?" Héloïse's voice is unexpectedly thick.

Sophie blinks. "Because it's Marianne? She's a legend? Her thesis is required reading at the Academy?"

Héloïse blinks back.

"You must have read it. Instrumental in catching several serial killers? You remember John Barnett? Luther Lee Boggs?"

"I know the cases."

"Those were Marianne's profiles."

Some of the Bureau's biggest wins in recent years. And Marianne's here. In the basement. Alone.

Not alone.

Not in the basement for much longer, either.

"The Assistant Director wants to see you," Sophie says.

* * *

"Your reports make for very interesting reading."

Héloïse squirms in her chair, prickled by conscience. "It's been a very interesting few weeks." Since she was last sat here, in this office.

"You won't have to suffer it much longer. Decisions have been reached." It is clear from the satisfaction on his face what decisions and in whose favour. And last time she hadn't cared at all.

"And Mari- Agent Mulder?"

"Her old chief is keen to have her back in the BSU. And if she won't, well, that's her prerogative. But what about you? Have you given it any thought?"

Héloïse hasn't, she realises. Not at all.

He continues. "A teaching position at Quantico? Forensic Science?" A quiet lab somewhere. Tempting. "Or perhaps this experience has given you a taste for the Office of Professional Responsibility?"

Which makes it sound like Marianne has been doing something wrong. To be lumped in with the corrupt, the incompetent. To be under suspicion and investigated and rooted out.

"No?" he checks, because she still hasn't said anything. "You have a think about it. You've a bright future ahead of you, Agent."

"Thank you, sir. Is that all, sir?"

"Yes. If you can use the next few days of peace and quiet to get some of the paperwork wrapped up that would be good. And have a think about your next steps." He is already picking up his phone, moving on, as Héloïse gets up.

She lingers in the doorway. "Sir, I -"

He puts the phone down and looks at her.

"I'm concerned that some of my reports didn't give a full picture of the work that Agent Mulder does with the X-Files."

"No, they were very thorough." Looking away again, expecting her to leave.

"Yes but I don't think I -" She can't push this. He is impatient and does not want to hear Héloïse's doubts. It's a weakness to only speak them off the record while halfway out the door. To tell herself she had tried. When she had not tried at all.

* * *

**Paris, Tennessee**

Music booms from Marianne car as she pulls up at the police station. Guitars and yelling. Just how she likes it.

Inside there are the same scattering glances that bounce away when she returns them.

Report to Section Chief Scott is the instruction. "Mulder, back from the wilderness. Get yourself a desk, familiarise yourself with the case. We're meeting in two hours."

Marianne looks at the rows of heads bent over crime scene photographs in the stuffy office and is back in the car within a minute.

* * *

The scene is still cordoned off and partially covered with a tent. Forensics optimistic about finding something useful. Marianne flashes her badge at the police officer - Héloïse not being there to do it for her - and is admitted.

She doesn't go into the tent. The bloody bit of pavement is not that interesting. She stands and looks at the trees, the houses, up and down the road. It would be better to be here at night. There's no one to protest this idea so it is resolved upon. In the meantime Marianne leaves the cordon and walks two blocks further down the road to the victim's destination, his house. Walks back, around the block of the scene, then a bit further on. Walking and looking. Trying not to think. Just let it all sink in.

* * *

Inevitably she arrives back at the station house late for the meeting. There's no unobtrusive way to enter the room, the door being at the front where the projector flashes bloodstain patterns onto the wall.

Around the conference table there are faces she recognises and many she doesn't. She tries not to look at them. Is very aware they are all looking at her.

Scott pauses. "Where were you?"

"At the scene."

He nods. Gestures for her to sit, an empty space at the front. She stands at the back.

After the bloodstain pattern analysis everyone gets to talk about how tall - or not - they think the killer is and how this makes them feel and what this means and whether it might in fact be a woman and Marianne is fast losing the will to live.

There's then some discussion of the victim, a state senator, which explains the furore because it is of course always worse when members of the legislature are killed. Was this a coincidence or intentional, people ask. At length. Extra security is being organised for all other members, just in case. The significance of the defensive wounds is discussed.

Marianne has by now very much lost the will to live.

* * *

"What else is going on? Other than state senators?" she asks an officer, picking him on the grounds that he looks the most pissed off about the intrusion.

He takes her through the burglaries, car theft, miscellaneous drug dealers, a kid near-trampled by a drunk, regular domestic abuse calls, embezzlement at the gas station...

"Ugh, humans are the worst. Wait," Marianne says. "Go back to that one."

* * *

Boxes upon boxes are being carried into the police station. Marianne watches from her car, having set up office there. Reading up on the Honourable Senator Carey. The boxes are from his office. The client list from his law firm is being treated as a suspect list.

"Who would do such a thing?" people ask, about murders. According to Héloïse, anyone. Who would kill a lawyer / government official? Quite a lot of people, probably.

Who would knock a little girl to the floor and walk over her, is a question Marianne is more interested in. All things being equal this is not at all: two dozen FBI agents for one, half the attention of an overworked police sergeant for the other.

* * *

Marianne sneaks into the briefing for the Investigative Support Unit to take a glance down the client list. The clamour of the other, far more enthusiastic agents, allows her to slip in, and then away.

Away to the home of the little girl with her arm in a cast, bruises on her face. Marianne draws an FBI badge on the plaster. To ward away danger, if only she could.

Then talks to the mother. Once everything in the police report has been repeated and the mom thinks she has done her piece, that the 'interview' is over and is more relaxed about it, Marianne is ready to start the real work.

The rough and ready composite portrait of the offender lies on the coffee table. These pictures never look quite right, Marianne thinks. The mom had only glimpsed from the front porch, the kid and assailant being on the sidewalk. It had been dark. He had been walking quickly.

Marianne is listening to how difficult the situation with the police has been, consoling. How everyone had become obsessed with the high profile murder a few days later.

"It's not fair," she agrees.

Returning again to the question - the refrain of who would do such a thing? - there's a hesitation.

"There was something..."

"What?" A gentle prompt.

"You'll think it's weird."

"I promise I won't." Lady, you want to hear some of my stories, she's thinking. Make your hair stand on end.

"Something creepy about him."

"How so?"

"Just not quite right. Not quite human."

But when pressed for details no more were forthcoming. It would be easy to doubt the humanity of someone who did something like that. But Marianne can feel the edge of the truth in it somewhere. Convoluted and strange.

* * *

Back at the police station Marianne is greeted with frustration. "Mulder! Where have you been?"

"Interviewing..."

"That's not your job. Leave that to the investigators." He sighs and looks around the room, at everyone trying very hard to pretend they are not watching. Has the decency to pull her to one side. "You're the best profiler I've ever seen. But some of your other skills seem to be going a little rusty with lack of use."

Those would be the diplomacy ones. A whole lot of others. Until recently she might have thought the teamwork ones too.

"What are your thoughts?" he asks.

"There was a girl practically bulldozed by some guy a few days before the murder."

Scott just looks at her. She waits for him to catch up. Waits for him to interject. He doesn't. It's about the bigger pattern being missed by the narrowness of the investigation.

"Why kill someone out on the street, a few blocks from their house?"

She answers her own question, no other answer being forthcoming. "Because you weren't intending to kill them."

Tossing all these ideas out only to have them thunk to the floor.

* * *

Once night has fallen Marianne leaves the office, still humming with activity. She parks near the crime scene but starts walking in the opposite direction. Just walking and walking the quiet, yellow-lit streets. Past the Carey house, past the girl's house, back around again. And again.

* * *

Héloïse closes the drawer of the filing cabinet. That Marianne was so proud of. What was she always looking for, in there? In these files, some unobtainable answers. Héloïse cannot ask, now.

Everything is up-to-date, every i dotted and t crossed.

Just one pile still sits on her desk, which she will drop off at the relevant department on her way out. The official transfer papers on top. Snaps an elastic band around them, nice and neat.

The telephone tempts her for a moment. She could call. See how Marianne is doing. Probably doing something foolish and Héloïse can't decide whether that's more reason to call, or less. Probably something without her cell phone, so not worth it.

Héloïse too pauses at the door before locking it.

Upstairs she looks for Sophie but the bullpen is empty. Up another flight of stairs she enters an office, the light still on, one poor soul still working away.

She waves the files around. "Some case transfers for you."

This is greeted with displeasure. "Like we haven't got enough on."

She shrugs. Not her problem. "Been signed off by the AD."

"Fine. Leave them there and I'll get to them."

Héloïse drops them on the desk. "Thank you."

"Wait, where are they from?"

"The X-Files."

At which he laughs. "Mulder's stuff?" He comes over to take a look. "Oh, wow." Leafing through. Héloïse still there, for some reason. "Have you read any of this junk? I'll file them in the trash."

She takes a step forward and he shies back. "I will be checking, tomorrow, that these have been logged. There are real people there - people who need our help."

The conviction startles her. It certainly startles him, he mumbles something contrite as he turns away.

* * *

Marianne has managed a few hours in bed before she has to be back in the office. She swings by the crime scene first. Where the tent is still up, forensics still there. Despite the fact that no physical evidence has been recovered in now three days since the murder. "So what are they looking for - or missing?" she asks the empty seat beside her.

Snap decision made, she bounds from the car.

"Section Chief Scott sent me for a copy of the fingerprints," she announces at the cordon, wielding her badge.

The investigator pauses. "There haven't been any fingerprints recovered."

"Right," she says, affecting nonchalance. "He needs a copy of the fingerprints that definitely have not been recovered." Taps her nose for emphasis. "Come on, man. I know, you know, he knows, we all know. Can I please have a copy of the file?"

It works. It actually works. She has to contain her glee until she gets back to the car. Until she opens the file. "Oh heck."

* * *

Section Chief Scott immediately waylays her in the corridor of the police station, saving her having to go find him. "While you were off getting your beauty sleep the boys have come up with a profile." He brandishes it.

A quick read of the first paragraph. "White male aged twenty-five to forty. Well, statistically, they are probably correct. Doesn't exactly narrow it down."

"I haven't seen your profile yet."

She shrugs it off. "Why are forensics still at the scene?"

"Just being thorough, I imagine."

"Nothing to do with a set of very odd fingerprints and a weird blood sample?" One might almost say, not quite human.

He darkens. "How did you -"

"Doesn't matter. You think it's not relevant, that it must be wrong. What if it's not?"

"This is not an X-File." It is a dire warning.

"No, absolutely not. Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

"Héloïse!" Marianne grins into the phone. "You will never guess what we've got here."

* * *

The excited phonecall persuades Héloïse onto a plane for reasons other than Marianne might have anticipated. This is supposed to be a bridge-building exercise to persuade Marianne back into the fold of the BSU and apparently Marianne is not taking the hint. How these people - who have been overseeing Marianne for years - could believe this would work when Héloïse - having known Marianne a matter of weeks - knew without a doubt that Marianne would not be budged, Héloïse could not fathom.

She opens the ring-bound document on her lap. Serial Killers and the Occult. Marianne Mulder. 1987. Oxford University. England. A bit of light, long-overdue reading.

* * *

Marianne pops her head into the conference room. "Hey, any of the client list still need interviewing?"

A list is consulted. "Erm, just one. An arbitration at the University of Tennessee."

"I'll take it."

The agent approaches with the file. "The two old guys having an academic dispute? Hardly bloodshed."

"Clearly you've not been around that many academics." A biologist and a chemist, very relevant.

Thus Marianne is on her way to Knoxville. A twin mission to interview some professors and collect Héloïse.

* * *

Dr Shirai, says the sign on the door. Biology professor, say the notes Marianne has just checked.

He arrives at the door already irritated.

"Hi, I'm Marianne, I'm with the FBI. I'm working on the Carey case."

He grunts. "I heard about that. Going to cause me some delays."

An interesting reaction to someone you know having been murdered.

"He was arbitrating the case you have with Dr Reid." Chemist, also at the University of Tennessee.

"Only met him a couple of times."

"May I come in?"

It is allowed, as are the questions about the dispute with Dr Reid which sounds like a classic case of academic mudslinging.

"My concern is that Dr Reid's work borders on the very edge of acceptability."

"How so?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me. At the very least, I have an extremely smart friend."

He will not try her. So she looks around his office. Bends over a large fishtank and inspects the contents. "They are adorable."

"Axolotls."

"Salamander family. You're interested in their regenerative powers?" He's still putting that in his pipe and smoking it when Marianne moves on. "What's in the fridge?" The rhythmic humming ticks on, as if on cue.

"Specimens," he says, haughty. Beneath it, the tiniest tremor of apprehension.

Because while Shirai claimed his colleague's work bordered on the very edge of acceptability the rejoinder was the same. And there was a lot you could do with 'specimens' and regenerative powers. Something not quite human.

* * *

Dr Reid's lab is in the basement, unwindowed and lit by fluorescent tubes. He is affable and accommodating and waits politely while Marianne says hello to the mice in the cages on the far wall.

"They are just mice-shaped people, aren't they, really?" she says. "Except what's up with this guy?" One of the mice is tossing itself around the cage, gnashing tiny little teeth, throwing itself against the bars.

"It's part of the experiment," Dr Reid says. "Not pleasant to see but the effect is only temporary. And despite what some might say it has all been approved by the ethics committee."

"Your dispute with Dr Shirai?"

"His dispute with me. And now poor Mr Carey has been killed, which rather puts things in perspective."

"I suppose it does." Marianne straightens up. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

* * *

Marianne is waiting at arrivals. Peering through the crowd. "Welcome to Knoxville," she smiles. "I'm afraid the car is only in my name so it's two hours back to Paris accompanied by Seattle's finest alternative musicians."

* * *

To distract herself from Marianne's driving Héloïse tries to look through the case files that were dumped in her lap. But Marianne keeps leaning over to point things out and just generally being a hazard. Héloïse smacks her hand away and closes the files.

"Concentrate," she commands.

Marianne does, with a defiant little smile. The music is mercifully low.

With Marianne's eyes safely on the road, Héloïse can say, "I didn't know your background was in psychology."

"Yes."

She lets it sit for a minute, to see if Marianne has anything to add. She does not. "So everything I said about... well, lots of things. You knew all that. You know more than I do probably."

"I like talking to you about it."

Another pause. "I read your thesis."

"That old thing."

"It's... brilliant."

Marianne waves it off.

"It is. You wrote that at college? It's better profiling than any of those fools can put together. You are good at this." It is a vast understatement. It's all she can manage.

A deep breath from Marianne, her brow furrowed. "I don't want to be good at this. I quit Behavioural Sciences for a reason. Profiling - it gets under your skin. Well, it did mine and I'll admit it. I'd be more worried if it didn't. Gaze into the abyss and the abyss also gazes into you? No thanks. It needed me to be someone I have no interest in being." Her hands shift on the steering wheel.

"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster." Héloïse knows it well. Dislikes the idea that Marianne does, more than she can articulate.

"As occupational hazards go that is a pretty alarming one," Marianne smiles and she is back.

Héloïse feels the lightness in her own chest. Then the realisation that it is a temporary reprieve drags her down again.

* * *

"The slight issue," Marianne rounds on Héloïse in front of the police station, "is that you _technically_ aren't supposed to be here."

"You haven't cleared it with the agent in charge?"

"No. In fact, he very specifically told me this wasn't an X-File. And you are with the X-Files."

"Marianne!"

"It's okay, it'll be okay. Just... keep your head down. There's so much going on in there. He'll never notice. Just act like you belong. Well, you always do. Just act like yourself."

Héloïse wants to ask whether she always belongs, or just always acts like she belongs, that all of a sudden feeling like an important distinction. Marianne is nervous and as soon as they enter the building Héloïse understands why. The whispers, the flickering glances that wither as Héloïse returns them. Lord only knows there are people in the Bureau she would never want to be assigned to a case with and here Marianne is facing a whole department of them.

Marianne is opening doors along the hall and apologising each time she interrupts the people within.

"Oh, this'll do." Finally an empty one.

Héloïse sticks her head in. "I think this might just be the junk room."

"At least there's a desk."

"It only has three legs."

"Up to the usual standards of accommodation the X-Files are provided." Marianne sits on it, proving a point. Starts to slide. "Just... put any weight on this other side."

Héloïse tests a chair. It seems stable enough.

"I'll go get the files and stuff."

Héloïse arranges another mostly-stable chair at the desk. Marianne arrives back with a mug of coffee balanced on a pile of folders. Sits it in front of Héloïse.

"Running the gauntlet every time," she complains. Then, apparently reading Héloïse's look, adds, "It's okay. I know what people say about me."

"It's unprofessional," Héloïse says. "They shouldn't be like that."

"I'm used to it. Everyone's always telling me what a junk assignment this is. And treating me like a loser."

"You're not a loser."

"Debatable. Like I say, you get used to it. Well, not you. You are definitely not a loser."

Héloïse feels the unspoken question raising its head again. Of why she is there. But she can only think of everything she has in fact lost. Is losing, right now.

* * *

They sit reading in silence. Marianne with her feet up on the desk, Héloïse leaning over it with her fist pressed into her shoulder. Every so often passing a piece of paper of particular interest from one to the other or pointing out a passage.

Héloïse reads the profile. "How did they come up with this, throw darts at a list?"

"I'd hate to think," Marianne grins, "how much more accurate that would be than a bunch of highly trained, highly paid profilers."

"Like monkeys typing Shakespeare," Héloïse offers. Thinks about the Bureau's payscale and Marianne's touchingly generous definition of 'highly paid.' Goes back to reading again.

It's all very civilised. Until a "Mulder!" roars through the building.

"That's me," Marianne says helpfully. "I guess I should..." and opens the door.

"So this is where you've been hiding." In storms some sort of Bureau Ken doll, all jaw and expensive suit. "Why are you in the closet?"

"Well, prevailing social attitudes mean there are numerous professional and personal repercussions to disclosing... and you mean why are we working in a storage closet: because it was the only space I could find."

After a brief moment of possibly the most excruciating tension Héloïse has ever experienced in her life, she turns to Bureau Ken. "I'm Special Agent Scully. You must be the Special Agent in Charge."

"Scott, yes. It would appear though that there has been some sort of mix up. As I told Mulder this morning, this is not an X-File. No matter how much she wants it to be." He glares.

"I don't _want_ it to be an X-File. I'm just open to the possibility. Unlike everyone else, who desperately wants it _not_ to be an X-File." She says it cheerfully enough, unconcerned by the situation. Entirely accepting of the uphill battle she is constantly engaged in. Héloïse finds herself sort of admiring it, until she remembers where they are and what they are supposed to be doing.

"I appreciate that, sir," she attempts to mollify. "However, being as I am here now I think I might be of some help."

* * *

And she is of a lot of help, Marianne thinks. Having spent hours reading and discussing, once Scott had grudgingly allowed them to continue. Until Marianne points out it is nine o'clock and time to call it a day. And manages to refrain from making jokes about coming out of closets as they leave, given the abject horror that had appeared on Héloïse's face. Then, once having left, being pleasantly surprised at Héloïse noting they hadn't eaten and suggesting the steakhouse down the road.

"I'll have fries and a salad," Marianne says, handing over her menu with a thank you, looking back at Héloïse.

Who is looking at her unimpressed. "We're at a steakhouse."

"I'm vegetarian."

"You're..." Lost for words. Almost mad about it. "Why did you - but you eat seafood?"

"No. Fries and a salad," she replies and Héloïse looks so annoyed it makes Marianne laugh.

Annoyance that fades as they spend the rest of the meal talking about the culinary disasters they have endured while on assignment, the food poisoning, all the room-temperature beer Marianne drank at Oxford, until it is even later still.

"You ladies take care now," the waiter says as they leave. "There are some very unsavoury characters wandering around out there."

"That's mostly me," Marianne says apologetically. "Sometimes I even run." Still proud of herself.

A patrol car rolls slowly down the street as they make their plans for tomorrow.

* * *

Héloïse had been pretty much aghast at Marianne's Frankenstein's monster theory but, Marianne notes triumphantly, had agreed to return to the university for further questions and to see for herself.

"We should look in on Dr Reid first, I want you to meet his mice," Marianne says. She knocks on his door. Tries the handle. "Dr Reid..." and enters, immediately tripping over something on the floor. She catches herself just in time, "Not today, Satan," she crows. Then looks up.

The room is a mess.

Héloïse is right behind her. "Is this... this is not what you wanted me to see?"

"No. No, this is new."

There's no body. Everything else though - books tossed from the shelves, glass smashed, a cabinet overturned, desk drawers pulled out. No blood, no body. That was good. Not great, granted. But not as bad as it could be.

"When did this happen?"

"I was here just before I picked you up."

"I'm going to find out who saw him last. And call the police," Héloïse says and disappears down the hall.

"We are the police," Marianne says to the empty room. "Sort of."

She crunches through the detritus. Some of the mice are gone. Wants to right the cabinet but knows she ought to leave it. Crouching down on broken glass and a sodden carpet she spies one intact vial underneath. She pokes it with her pen until it's close enough to reach. Holds it up to the light. Behind it, in the doorway, is Dr Shirai.

"Hey," Marianne says.

He is looking into the room, dumbfounded.

Marianne jumps to her feet. "Hey," she says again. Readying herself to give chase and not looking forward to it at all.

But Dr Shirai isn't running. "Where's Alistair?"

"When did you last see him?"

"Days ago. Except -" He holds out a thickly packed envelope. "He left me this."

* * *

_To be opened in the event of the disappearance of Dr Alistair Reid._

_My dear John,_

_I regret how things have ended between us but even given that I find there is no one else I can turn to with this. You have been right in your accusations these last years. That I have changed. You cannot imagine, though, what that change has been or that it has made me as unhappy as it made you._

_After years of research I thought I had my breakthrough. A way to unburden humanity of shame, an antidote to the duality of man._

_It is in effect a distillation. Of a side of myself. Regrettably, the worst of myself. Once prepared and ingested the tincture transforms both body and mind._

"Marianne -" Héloïse interrupts her reading - "Don't you dare - give that thing to me." She takes the vial from Marianne's hands.

_The creature that remains of me is a foul thing. He - for I cannot still accept it is entirely myself so I must put some distance between us - is so thoroughly wicked that I cannot recount every trespass. I am aware of his transgressions as if in a dream. Aware but incapable of preventing._

"Did he always talk like this?" Marianne asks.

_Afterwards, the effect is reversed by drinking again. He allows himself to be submerged back into me, though he holds me in high disdain, finding me weak, a sop to appearances. He knows, after all, the extent of my vices. He is them. He allows it because it is his safety._

_However, the influence is strong. I have to take more and more of the liquid in order to regain myself. On more than one occasion I have involuntarily transformed. I have left all these details in the notes also contained in this envelope._

Héloïse slides them out.

_I fear that he is overtaking me completely. While I am fully myself I write this, provide these notes, so that you may stop him. He must be stopped. For what he has done to Carey and the pain he has caused so many others. He has his own apartment, to avoid attention. The address is enclosed._

"And we're off," Marianne says.

* * *

Marianne drives while Héloïse scans through Dr Reid's notes. "This is quite something."

Dr Shirai sits in the back, dazed still.

"Aren't you just a little bit curious?" Marianne asks her.

"I already know the worst parts of myself," Héloïse replies, offhand again.

"Doesn't have to be the worst. Could be the better angels."

Héloïse does not look convinced. "Your profile was incorrect. Wrong doctor," she mutters, back to reading.

"A PhD?"

There's a shake of her head but Marianne can't see if it won a smile or not. "Dr Jekyll."

They arrive at the apartment building and Dr Reid obviously was not willing to splash out much on his interloper as security is lax and they march straight in through an open front door.

At the apartment door itself there are clear sounds of cursing and furniture being thrown around.

Héloïse's hand is inside her jacket again, at her holster.

"We should wait for backup" Marianne whispers.

"I could just kick it," Héloïse offers.

Marianne would really quite like to see that, and reinforcements could be a while. "Go on then, if you must."

No sooner has she said it than there is a howl from inside the apartment. Not quite human. Reminds Marianne of that werewolf and she wants to tell Héloïse except then there is the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

A step back and an amazingly accurate planting of a foot just next to the lock of the door later and Héloïse bursts into the apartment with her usual salutations of "FBI, hands where I can see them" and so on. Marianne follows, just in time to see the final spasms as the body on the floor writhes into the form of Dr Reid.

"Did you see that?" She wants to know that Héloïse did, had seen the entirely different person that had been there moments before. That the mangled fingerprints and strange blood belonged to. Gone.

Héloïse is on her knees by Dr Reid's side but there's blood and brain matter spewing out from behind him. "Shit." She starts chest compressions.

Marianne says, "Héloïse, surely not," but she continues. So Marianne takes Héloïse's phone, calls it in, asking for paramedics too. Then moves Héloïse to the side, takes over, until backup finally arrives.

* * *

Héloïse finds Marianne sitting among the boxes at the Paris police station. "They'll pack you into the truck if you aren't careful."

"Deliver me straight back to the Behavioural Sciences Unit." Marianne's voice is flat.

She'd been told, then. Héloïse sits next to her.

"They're closing the X-Files. I'm being reassigned. I've been reassigned already, only I was too stupid to notice."

A pair of agents come to take more boxes, look askance at them.

Once they have gone Héloïse says, "It doesn't have to be the BSU. There will be something else for you, Marianne. You are a good agent. You will find a place where you can do good work and make a difference."

Marianne shakes her head. "I did. I found that..." She puts her head in her hands for a moment, then draws her hands back through her hair and sits up straight. "Thank you, though. For trying to make me feel better."

And sat there in the calm stillness, thinking about the case closed even if with no particular satisfaction by Marianne out of all those agents that had been bustling through this room so self-important and disdainful, being _thanked_ , Héloïse knows what she has to do.

"I was assigned to the X-Files to report on your work. The reports used to close you down." There ought to be an apology there but she's struggling to come up with one, one that could get anywhere near making up for this.

Marianne is still.

"Marianne..."

"Okay. Yes. That makes sense."

Héloïse waits. Waits a little longer. "Is... is that it?"

The reply is a shrug. "Yes." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know we had a shoutout in the text no less, but shoutout to The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde on which this whole thing is based.


	5. Then Who's Flying the Plane?

Getting on the plane back to DC and Héloïse is aware she keeps shooting glances at Marianne. Is aware but entirely incapable of not. 

Marianne, for her part, seems entirely unaware. Of that, of everything. Gazing aimlessly out of the window at the waiting aeroplanes or down at the baffling carpeting. Héloïse has to nudge her as the queue moves forward. 

* * *

Marianne is the only person on the plane listening attentively to the preflight safety briefing. Héloïse flicks through a magazine but puts it away and closes her eyes. It's starting to hit. A sort of dizziness. The vibrations build as they taxi along the runway. She's gripping the handrest as they go skyward. 

* * *

Héloïse does not notice at first, trying to lean her head back against the seat and breathe, close her eyes. It's Marianne wriggling beside her. Unbuckling her seat belt and trying to clamber over Héloïse's legs. 

"What are you -" 

Marianne dangling right in front of her, one hand supporting herself on Héloïse's seat. "Going to see what all that row is about."

Which is when Héloïse hears it. Not so much the words as the tone of voice. Belligerent. "Someone's had too much to drink. The stewards will deal with it." Rearranges the blanket Marianne's exit is disturbing. 

"I just don't like it." Marianne completes her escape and moves down the aisle. 

Héloïse turns in her seat and watches her go for a moment. Decides to stay where she is, though keeping an ear out. Listening for an escalation that does not come. Just the murmur of Marianne. "Oh buddy, I know. I know."

Most of the passengers are watching the television, headsets on, unconcerned. Marianne's intervention has allowed the flight attendants to get back to work. Héloïse turns again, can't see where Marianne might be sitting. Can't relax, either. 

Disturbed by the pitiful droning whine of a drunk in full flow of dumping all his cares on Marianne. "But it's not their fault is it?" Marianne trying to convince him not to take it out on the stewards. The jumble of anxieties winding down. "I'm sorry. It's rough. Yeah, I love you too." Héloïse smiles at the amusement she can hear in Marianne's voice. "Get some sleep. I'm just up there if you need me." 

A few minutes later there's the rustling of Marianne trying to squeeze by. 

"Crisis averted?"

"Oh, hi. I thought you were asleep. Yeah, he's fine." Marianne settles into her seat. "I just get nervous. With drunk people."

"So your instinct is to sit next to them and talk about their issues?" 

"I have some experience with both sad and angry drunks." 

Héloïse doesn't particularly want to think about that so she says, "Hopefully he will be a sleeping drunk for the rest of the flight. Hopefully _I_ will be sleeping for the rest of the flight."

* * *

It doesn't feel like more than two minutes before Marianne is disturbing her again. It's making Héloïse reconsider her aversion to the middle seat and having made Marianne take it. Marianne who is currently tripping over both her own and Héloïse's feet trying to extricate herself. 

"What now?"

"Sorry, sorry. I think there's -"

The call goes out over the tannoy. "Is there a doctor on the plane?"

* * *

As it turns out, there are three doctors on the plane. Héloïse, a general practitioner aged about eighty, and a radiographer. The other two seem very relieved to see her and melt back into their seats after perfunctory offers of assistance. 

The reason for the call is sweating, grey, nauseous, writhing in his seat.

"I need whatever medical kit you have," Héloïse says to the concerned-looking attendant. "And some aspirin."

"Is he having a heart attack?" asks Marianne quietly, turned away from him.

"No, they are for me." 

It does not take much examination to come to a likely diagnosis: the swelling and his general appearance, the way her hands on his abdomen provokes a barrage of profanity. 

"No need for that," she says in response. 

"I see now why you mostly deal with dead people," Marianne contributes unhelpfully. Though it does distract both Héloïse and her patient from antagonising each other further. 

"Appendicitis," she says to Marianne, again quietly and turned away. 

"Are you going to operate on the plane?"

"Certainly not." She looks for a flight attendant. "We are going to be delayed, I'm afraid."

* * *

Most of the cabin crew are huddled in the galley.

"We have to divert to the nearest airport. That man needs urgent medical attention." 

One of the crew steps forward. "I checked on the manifest... are you with the FBI?"

"Yes," Marianne says. 

Héloïse pulls out her badge. "It's my medical opinion -" but no one is listening. 

Marianne has her gentle, encouraging manner on as she says, "Is anything wrong?" 

A gulp. "It's just that, well, the pilots have gone missing."

Héloïse waits for some sort of clarification or explanation of any kind but none comes. That's it, end of story. 

"That's probably quite a big problem, isn't it?" Marianne says. "Are we on automatic pilot?"

"Yes," the attendant says. "At least, I think so. Quite a big problem. And the phones are down." Indeed one of the crew is standing by the phone periodically lifting the handset and putting it back. 

"We need to get to the cockpit," Héloïse says, for want of a better plan. 

Marianne turns to her. "You know how to fly a plane?"

"No, how would I - when - why..."

"Oh. It just seemed like that was what you were going to say. That would have been really helpful. You should ask about it when we get back. Professional development. Or maybe _I_ can be a pilot."

They are at the cockpit by now. Coming through first class and picking up sharp looks. Somewhere Héloïse had been hoping that they would get in there and it would be fine. Two pilots turning to greet them. Probably one would look like her grandfather, as she remembered him from when she was a child. The other younger. She irritates herself by unconsciously imagining them both male. However. The cockpit is empty. 

The hatch down to the pilot's quarters is open. Marianne gets on her knees to put her head in. "Nope." She gets back up and starts leaning over the instruments on the dashboard. 

"Don't -" Héloïse starts to say.

"I'm not going to touch them." Marianne cuts her off. Then looks carefully around the chairs, moving back to inspect the cupboards next to the door. 

Héloïse asks questions of the flight attendants. Who was last seen where. Whether this is normal. No, really, whether it is normal for pilots to wander off - no matter what might be the official line. But gets nothing useful. No one saw them leave. Coffees were delivered half an hour ago and then everyone had been busy with service. "Can I get one?" Héloïse asks. "A coffee?"

Inside the cockpit, she can hear Marianne's voice. Very possibly speaking to herself - Héloïse can't discern the words. She puts her head back through the door and sees Marianne with the handset trying to raise air traffic control. From the puzzled look on her face Héloïse deduces this is not working. 

"You can't get through on your phones?" she confirms. The cabin crew shake their heads. 

Marianne reappears. "We need to search the plane, without it looking like we are searching the plane and scaring people. Do you have some sort of protocol for that?" 

Someone gets a binder out and starts going through it. 

"It's going to be fine," Marianne adds with more cheer than Héloïse feels the situation warrants. But cheering for the optimism creeping back into Marianne's voice. 

* * *

Once the avionics bay has been checked - Marianne pondering aircrew rather than pilot - and the cargo bay not checked because it was impossible to open the door more than an inch due to said cargo - the rest of the plane needs to be searched. 

"I'm pretty sure," Marianne murmurs as they check the overhead bins, "people would have noticed two pilots climbing up here."

"We are being thorough."

"We most certainly are. Who is checking the waste tank, in that case?" 

They do check the toilets. One of which is developing quite a smell. Other members of the cabin crew are on the search also but they make it through coach with no luck. 

Héloïse braces herself for the fuss that is more likely in first class. Her mind conjures what her mother would say to such an intrusion. 

Indeed there is much tutting and sighing when all they are doing is moving quietly through. 

"Why is first-class always at the front of the plane?" Marianne asks. 

Héloïse waits obligingly. 

"Or do you not know? I'll ask a steward."

"No, I do, I thought you were - I was waiting for the punchline."

Marianne brightens. "Do you want me to tell you a joke?"

Héloïse lurches into an explanation. "It's further away from the engines, thus quieter, and turbulence is reduced at the front because of the centre of gravity. It's closer to the door and being at the front carries a feeling of prestige."

It garners an impressed nod. "A winning combination of science and social cues. Hey, what do you call a boomerang that doesn't come back? A stick."

Héloïse stares. From a seat behind her someone snorts. 

"Thank you," Marianne says to them. Then to Héloïse, "Do you think I could do stand up? No?"

* * *

Héloïse has learned more than she needs to know about the layout of aeroplanes, heard more jokes, and not located any pilots. The appendicitis case is perspiring away and asking for a drink but she has put him on nil by mouth awaiting his hopefully-soon operation. Something is wrong with the entertainment system that has the passengers disgruntled. She tries the phone again but nothing. 

In the crew area she is leaning against a cabinet, head first, when Marianne finds her. 

"I'm going to get those pilots fired," she tells Marianne. For her own satisfaction, not prompted by anything. "I'm going to get them fired from this job and pre-emptively from all their future jobs."

"Okay," Marianne says. "Do you need another coffee?"

"Yes."

She stays where she is until Marianne tries to give her a coffee. "You're assuming they will turn up again," Marianne says, once Héloïse has had a few mouthfuls. 

"People don't just disappear." 

"There have been cases of -"

"People _do not_ just disappear." 

"Okay," Marianne says again. 

Just watching Héloïse quietly. Suspiciously. "What? What is it?" 

"Toilets are flooded." 

* * *

Marianne sits in the sink pushing a mop down the toilet trying to staunch the flow.

"How is this possible?" Héloïse asks a crew member who is clearly just horrified and has no idea. 

"I've never seen it happen before," the woman says. 

"Exciting times," Marianne says from the cubicle. Héloïse contemplates closing the door. 

A blockade is being erected to stop the creep of sewage into the corridor but the smell... the smell cannot be contained. The steward sprays air freshener in the general vicinity but it only makes Marianne cough. 

Marianne continues undeterred. "I could be a plumber."

"What are you talking about?" Héloïse finally takes the bait.

"My new career."

It thumps in Héloïse's chest. "You have a career."

"Not any more," Marianne declares with satisfaction as she rams the mop back down the U-bend. 

"All right, stop, that's not helping." Héloïse gestures for Marianne to return to safety. A high stakes game of The Floor Is Sewage ensues as Marianne clambers over the barricade, avoiding Héloïse's outstretched hands and hopping down to the floor. 

"So not plumbing," Marianne continues to muse. "Maybe something with animals. What am I good at?"

Héloïse decides to leave that question unanswered. The plane bumps and shudders as she makes her way down the aisle. The seat belt signs ping on. 

Some passengers have begun to notice the flight is now overdue and are quizzing the stewards. The uncomfortable line of enquiry is brought to a sudden halt as the plane kicks and anyone who had not obeyed the seat belt sign quickly does so. 

Héloïse immediately seats herself and puts on her belt. The sky outside has turned grey. Lightning flashes. 

"Cool," Marianne says, bending to look through the window. 

"Sit down," Héloïse snaps. 

Marianne does so, across the aisle. A passing member of the crew takes the seat next to her. The plane drops, Héloïse feels the pressure against the seat belt that would have had her levitating without it. 

"Do you enjoy your job?" Marianne is asking the steward. "Only, I'm thinking about a career change."

"I wouldn't recommend it," the steward says.

"Is it the uniform? You're probably right. I'm not really a uniform sort of person." 

Someone screams as the tossing continues. Héloïse watches lightning hit the tip of the wing. Not a problem, aeroplanes were hit by lightning regularly. More a problem, potentially, that there was no one in the cockpit adjusting their course. 

The man next to her is mumbling something that, from the lilting rhythm, seems likely to be a prayer. 

"Are the oxygen masks going to fall down, like in the movies?" Marianne asks, sounding entirely too eager for Héloïse's liking. 

"I hope not," the steward groans. "They are a pain to fix and everyone freaks out." 

"Do you think we can get up front? Without becoming a human pinball." 

It takes Héloïse a moment to realise Marianne is talking to her. She relaxes her grip on the armrests. 

"And what would you do if you got there?" Héloïse asks through gritted teeth.

"Just for something to do, I suppose." 

"Stay where you are." The firmest possible instruction. 

"Hey, Héloïse, how does an elephant ask for a bun?" 

* * *

Once the turbulence has abated and after breaking up a fight, preventing someone from opening the emergency door - "What fresh hell?" Marianne wonders - handling a case of food poisoning, and fielding accusations of a stolen briefcase, all the while with a baby screaming, Héloïse throws herself into the nearest vacant seat. 

"What next? Any pregnant women onboard who fancy -"

"Héloïse, don't."

A woman's wail from further down the compartment. 

Héloïse looks at Marianne, unable to believe it. Marianne does not look surprised in the slightest. "Now you've done it." 

"What do you mean?"

"This is a lot of badness for one plane journey, do you not think?"

"What are you saying?" Héloïse knows exactly what Marianne is saying. But needs it to be actually said, out loud. 

"You are exuding a certain... irritation."

"A certain -" Héloïse begins. With irritation. Fine. 

"Let me go," Marianne, still standing, says. "Just a recce, to see if we do need medical assistance."

Héloïse doesn't agree but Marianne leaves anyway. So she takes a breath, tipping her head back. A few deep breaths to steady herself. The whiff of sewage, of... was that fuel? that didn't seem good, of stale body odour. All less than relaxing. 

"Cheer up," says the gentleman sitting next to her. "Might never happen."

"Okay!" Marianne exclaims. "False alarm, no babies today."

Someone is in danger of going out the door but Héloïse chooses to focus on Marianne instead. 

Who says, "Come on, I've got a plan."

* * *

"Here." Marianne opens the hatch in the cockpit and climbs down. 

Héloïse follows. The neatly folded sheets and regulatory airline blue blankets on the two beds. The curtain hanging between. Like a hospital. 

Marianne perches on one of the low beds and indicates the other. Héloïse sitting opposite, knees high and mingling with Marianne's. 

"You need a break. Barring medical emergencies I can handle this. And if there is a medical emergency I will fetch you immediately because I do _not_ want to be a doctor." 

"You'd be a good doctor."

"Would I?" Marianne smiles a little. 

"You're a better FBI agent though."

Something shifts, a little bit of sadness. "So are you." A little bit of teasing too, though. 

"I'm sorry," Héloïse finally says. 

"It's okay."

"I don't think it is. It doesn't have to be. If you want to be angry with me..." It is what Héloïse has been waiting for, holding her breath all this time. 

"Why would I be? It wasn't your idea. What choice did you have?"

Some, somehow. But also none. 

Marianne holds her in that steady gaze Héloïse cannot fight against. "Besides, you are mad enough at yourself. And not just about this."

Her shoulder throbs. The air in her lungs too dense. "I told myself things were going to be different. This time around. So far they haven't been different at all. I haven't been."

"You still can be."

Héloïse shakes her head, gives in and rubs at her shoulder. It makes it worse. She keeps doing it anyway. "There are expectations and assumptions that I can't... I don't know how..." 

"And then there's life. Full of surprises." 

That has certainly been true enough of late. 

This slow smile Marianne has. "Sleep," is all she needs to say.

* * *

The noise of the hatch opening folds itself into Héloïse's dream. An escape hatch, a way out. 

She opens her eyes to Marianne's feet descending the ladder. Step by step the rest of her appearing but staying on the ladder, peering round. "You're awake. We're just about to land." 

Héloïse sits up. "The autopilot?"

"The real boy pilots," Marianne says triumphantly. 

"You found them?" 

"They just sort of turned up. A bit shaken. But we can cover all that later." A grin and a nod over her shoulder. "Let's get outta here." 

* * *

Earlier than even first thing Monday morning and Héloïse is haunting the Assistant Director's office waiting for him to arrive.

Sophie gets in and watches from her desk. Héloïse continues to pace.

The AD's secretary arrives and protests that there's no time to meet with Héloïse. She moves her pacing into his waiting room so that the moment he walks in, moaning about traffic, she is in pursuit. 

"What can I do for you, Agent Scully?" he sighs. 

The only thought she has been capable of all weekend: "I think disbanding the X-Files is a mistake."

"If it is a mistake then it's not yours to make." He slams his briefcase on his desk. "I have been hearing far too much about all this."

She edges closer. "Really?" 

"Some higher-ups seem to think Mulder is best kept inside the tent pissing out, rather than making a nuisance of herself as a civilian."

"She has been threatening to leave the Bureau." To become a plumber, mostly, but that was by the by.

"Mulder is a rogue entity and I won't have her sabotaging my department, causing havoc and making a mockery, bringing the place into disrepute." 

"What if I stayed?"

"Agent, you have many opportunities ahead of you. The X-Files is a dead-end gig... it's a laughing stock."

"I know. I'll stay. You'll have the rational mind and the good grip on reality. As well as Marianne's..." she's going to say it, she has to say it, "Marianne's... brilliant, intuitive, tireless, empathetic work which, as we have seen, is invaluable."

"She can do that work in the BSU if she wants."

"She can't. And what does it matter to you, whether it's the X-Files or the BSU? As long as it gets done."

* * *

The adrenaline of it lasts as long as it takes Héloïse to get out of the door before the enormity hits her like a slap in the face. Undoing everything she had tried to achieve. Everything she had worked so hard to make it look like she was holding onto. Every rule she had ever tried to play by. 

And there, stood in the middle of the office, is Marianne. Sophie's wide eyes looking between them. 

"What did you do?" Marianne barely whispers. Looking equal parts terrified and impressed. 

Héloïse steps forward. "I said I would stay... He hasn't agreed to reinstate the X-Files, not yet. But I said I would stay. We can try again." Because the one thing Héloïse was sure of, the only thing Héloïse was sure of, was that this wasn't over.


	6. In Case of Zombies Break Glass

The view of the cemetery swoops across the damp grass. Taking in the dark sky and the owl hooting ominously. The gravestones, some old and crumbling, some shiny and new.

A slight movement of the ground below. Perhaps a trick of the light. No, a definite movement, a rise and fall as if breathing. The turf rises up and splits apart. Soil erupts from the hole with a faint green mist. A hand follows, grasping blindly.

* * *

Héloïse enters the office to find the lights off and Marianne and Sophie sat watching a film on the projector. With popcorn.

"What are you -"

"Shhh!" Marianne hisses.

"Marianne said it was research," Sophie shrugs.

Marianne tosses a piece of popcorn at her. "It is important research. We just got the call. Tomorrow we're heading to Maine. Perfectly straightforward case of zombies."

"Of course, yes, perfectly straightforward." Héloïse drops her files on the desk with deliberate force. "Can you not watch movies somewhere else? I have work to do. Mostly insurance forms thanks to you flooding that mall the other day."

"That was _not_ my fault. And we're working too." Marianne points at the screen. "Night of the Living Dead. Classic. In the sense that it's old. Not good." She turns in her chair. Holds out the bowl of popcorn. No, not a bowl, a helmet? "Come on. I'll even help rationalise it away for you: we're gaining an understanding of how pop culture tropes can inform cultural norms and thus reactions to unexplained phenomena."

Sophie laughs at the look on Héloïse's face that she is apparently unable to keep under control. "That's not funny." It had been sort of funny. "I don't sound like that." She does.

* * *

Eventually all three are sat with their feet up on the desk, passing the popcorn back and forth. Héloïse frowning, Marianne smiling, Sophie vaguely horrified.

"There's no way it would -"

"Shhh!" Héloïse is hushed again by both of them.

"But if it's science it should at least -"

"Shhh!"

"Are zombies scifi or more horror?" Sophie asks.

Marianne shrugs. "Depends on the zombie I guess."

"Why is Sophie allowed to -"

"Shhh!"

* * *

Marianne exits the toilet cubicle, half-listening to the various boarding announcements, whistling to herself. She washes her hands and when she looks up in the mirror - about to do one of those embarrassing grimaces to check her teeth - her eye is met.

It's the smoking home invader, fixing her with a robust stare. In an airport bathroom, under the harsh light, she is slightly less intimidating.

Marianne tries to pretend she is not startled. "How long have you been there? Were you just waiting for me to need the bathroom? What if I had really robust bladder control?"

"Last time we met I said you needed to be careful. To avoid ruffling feathers."

"You did say that. After you broke into my apartment."

A cigarette case, engraved, expensive-looking, is drawn from a pocket. Opened and offered in Marianne's direction.

"No, thank you."

She watches as lips form effortlessly around the cigarette that is put to them. The woman is taking her time. She has time to waste and is making sure Marianne knows it. An old-fashioned lighter too. The whole routine practised and perfected over many years.

"And yet... you managed to get the department closed down."

How close it had come to that still twists in Marianne's stomach. "Héloïse - Agent Scully - she changed their minds. She saved the X-Files." And Marianne is well aware of what that took.

A slow exhale. "It's sweet you think Agent Scully has that sort of clout. In reality a good deal of political capital was expended in keeping you open."

"Why? Who? Are you in government?"

Her questions are waved away. A gesture so refined it is almost funny, considering their location.

"So if you're not here to answer my questions why are you here? That's a question, I realise that."

There is a slight raise of the already-arched eyebrow. "To offer advice. Again. There are many challenges still to come your way."

"And I would love to hear all about it. Only I do have a plane to catch. And a kind of edgy travel companion."

* * *

**October 7, 1993**  
**Derworth, Maine**

There's a light drizzle under a grey sky as they pull up at the cemetery. Marianne looks around. "They said to meet them here. Hopefully we are in time to catch the exhumation."

"Hopefully," Héloïse mutters, turning up the collar of her coat as she gets out the car.

The cluster of people is not hard to spot. Nor is the digger. Near to their parked car, a white van waits.

"Lovely weather," Héloïse continues to gripe as they ascend the grass verge.

"It's how we know we're in... Wait, where are we again?" Sometimes it got a bit that way. Drizzle, cemeteries, plane journeys, frowning law enforcement officials.

Héloïse shows her badge and take care of the introductions around the group huddled by the grave.

"The ground was already disturbed like this?" Marianne asks.

"Sometime in the night," the police officer says.

The headstone hadn't even been erected yet. The cut in the turf was still clear. Up until the mound, like a molehill, bursting forth. "And the others?"

"Two other disturbed graves we are going to check out."

"So," Héloïse begins, "this was originally reported as one..." she's not going to say it but Marianne can see her struggling for an alternative. "One... person. But in fact there might be more?"

"That's what we are checking."

The digger kicks into action. Everyone peers into the grave as the soil leaves in the enormous bucket. Until it gets closer and a cemetery worker jumps down to finish the job by hand. Great splinters of the coffin lid are embedded in the earth. Then the empty coffin itself.

* * *

The next two are the same.

Héloïse grows increasingly aggravated. Fancy letting corpses be stolen like this or - and she knows Marianne's theory but is ignoring it - be burying people alive at this rate.

"Have there been any other burials in the last two, no, three, let's say four, days?"

The cemetery director does some quick maths. "One."

She turns to the police officer. "We need that body exhumed." If there is a body.

The police officer looks unconvinced. "Gonna need family permission or a judge to sign off on that."

Héloïse pulls her phone out. "Give me the number."

Apparently Marianne is so convinced of Héloïse's eventual success that she starts organising people around the grave of the most recent resident. The excavator is poised.

There's a moment's hesitation, however. Looking at the paperwork fetched from the office. Only a young man, her age, hit by a truck two weeks ago. The idea of calling his widow and putting this on her. She thinks about the chances of this being possible. That he could somehow still be alive and in the ground. But the chances of any of this are too infinitesimal to get to grips with.

"Marianne," she says and Marianne is beside her in an instant. "I think perhaps..."

"You want me to call?" Marianne's persuasive warmth would seem to be a better fit for this situation. "Of course I can."

Marianne takes the phone and the file and wanders off, kicking at the grass. Héloïse can only hear the gentle murmuring. She joins the others at the grave and watches until Marianne looks over and gives the thumbs up. She keeps talking for a while though and Héloïse won't let the excavator start up until she has finished.

Back at the grave watching the teeth claw into the earth, Marianne says, "I'll go and see the family tomorrow I think. Nice woman."

Héloïse nods, her mind more preoccupied with what the nice woman might be on the verge of finding out. But when the final debris is being cleared there's no sign of the broken coffin like the others. Which didn't mean... "Get it open," Héloïse says.

The coffin is raised, the lid unscrewed. Inside, a perfectly neat and tidy corpse. No sign of struggle or disturbance. Héloïse leans over anyway, checks for a pulse, for pupil response. "Dead," she confirms.

* * *

Marianne trails Héloïse into the morgue. They are here to meet the redeceased person who kicked off this whole thing. And they have brought the definitely-dead person they just exhumed. The three escaped formerly-living people in between are still location unknown.

Héloïse is busy backing the morgue attendant into a corner. Demands to know where the actual medical examiner is and why the exhumed man hit in the road traffic collision hadn't been autopsied.

"Eyewitnesses," the attendant says. "Seemed pretty obvious I guess."

"Not good enough," is Héloïse's retort. "And the first victim?"

The morgue attendant pulls out a drawer. "Got shot."

Even Marianne, very much not a pathologist, feels she could have guessed that cause of death thanks to the bullet hole in the forehead. Héloïse is correct though. Guessing isn't good enough.

"About a week after he got drunk, fell in the lake, and drowned. Been buried two days."

"And no autopsy on him either?" prompts Héloïse.

"They pulled him out the lake. I guess that seemed pretty obvious too."

"Why shot?" asks Marianne quickly, to interrupt whatever ire Héloïse is about to unleash on this innocent underling.

"Police got a call about a disturbance and when they got there it had already been resolved," he shrugs. "He'd been trying to break into a house and the owner said he was getting violent."

Marianne looks at Héloïse. Héloïse very much does not look back.

* * *

The attendant had been more than happy to let Héloïse take over and had not wasted any time in heading home for the night.

Marianne gets some post-its: scribbling and sticking them on the wall. Looking through files. Who died, when, how. Whose body was missing and when. Who had died again. Who hadn't.

Héloïse, about to autopsy the drunk-drowned-shot guy, comes over, snapping her gloves on.

"What are you looking for?"

Marianne takes a step back. "I'm hoping I'll know when I find it." She's not finding it.

There's a nod in acknowledgement. "I'm getting started."

More post-its. Trying to build something like a timeline and trying to see a pattern. But only finding more questions. Why these people, why these waves of them, why all relatively fresh? What was the connection, what was going to happen tonight? And that was before you even got to how.

Behind her is the steady voice relating findings. Calm and orderly, following the protocol. Héloïse in her element. For over an hour. While Marianne starts to think she might just be finding it. 

"Okay," she announces, moving to put on her coat.

Héloïse looks up. "And where are you going?"

"Get us some food."

* * *

Marianne does not go to get food. In fact, Marianne proceeds directly to the cemetery. "Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars," she says to the night.

The cemetery is only a few minutes from the morgue. Most places in Derworth seem to be only a few minutes from anywhere else. The rain has increased, it has grown dark, and there are not many people about.

Shockingly, considering what is obviously going on, and even any of the graverobbing-esque alternatives, there is only one police officer on guard and he sits in his patrol car smoking. Hardly any help at all. She's not sure he would even have stopped her but she knocks on his window and explains herself all the same, for a disinterested nod.

Flashlight out she sweeps the beam across the graves. The rain slices through the visibility and the shadows shudder.

* * *

Héloïse watches Marianne leave and shakes her head. Turns back to the body. The brain hadn't taken the sort of damage one might expect from a bullet passing through. The lungs, which she examined now, were as expected. Telltale signs of drowning.

There's a noise. Nothing specific, more of a rustle.

"Marianne?" But Marianne had definitely left and her return would have been heralded with some nonsense and Héloïse was already preparing for the inevitable quarrel about not eating in the morgue.

It happens again. The settling of something plastic. Héloïse turns, scans the room. Everything looks in order. She shakes her head and goes back to work.

* * *

The three dug-up graves are mercifully cordoned off. Marianne has some experience falling into open graves and is not eager for a repeat. Muddy and almost impossible to climb out of in the rain. Plus Héloïse would be less than impressed. Even less than normal. And she is trying to be on her best behaviour. So she treads carefully.

* * *

Héloïse hears a new noise. Something low, guttural. Human. Then a definite banging. Metallic, from the drawers.

"Shit," she says, which reminds her to switch off the tape recorder. She pulls off her goggles and snaps off her gloves.

Goes to the freezer drawers where there is a clear sound of groaning and another bang. Opens one and is confronted with a corpse. Opens a second, the same. Opens the third and takes a step back in shock. The occupant writhes.

"Fuck," she says.

Panicked eyes implore her and she helps the pale, freezing cold man sit up. It's him, from the cemetery today. He tumbles onto the floor and, though some instinct is strongly advising against it, she takes his arm and helps him to his feet.

"Sir, I think you need to sit down. Do you know where you are?" His eyes are glassy, not quite focussed. Brain damage and worse, going untreated for so long. He walks stiffly, heading for the door. She puts herself in front. "I'm afraid you need to stay here. I'm going to call an ambulance, you need to go to the hospital. Do you understand?"

He looks at her now, tips his head curiously. Opens his mouth and the strangest, bone-chilling noise comes out. He advances on her.

Moving backward swiftly, knocking a stool out the way, Héloïse attempts reason. "I understand this must be very upsetting and confusing but really if you can just sit down we will get you medical attention."

* * *

Movement catches in the beam of Marianne's flashlight. She backtracks to it but the rain and the shadows are unclear. Until a figure looms out of the darkness.

"Hi," Marianne says around the knot of fear in her throat. "Are you okay?"

It's a woman, stumbling closer. Nice blue dress, hardly appropriate attire for the weather and a late-night walk in a cemetery. Smeared with mud. Mud on her hands.

"Okay. It's okay." An attempt to calm. Then, off to the side, a moaning.

Marianne turns slowly, trying to keep everyone in her sights. Two, two zombies. No, three, the light picking out another face.

She backs away slowly in what she hopes is the direction of the road. Starts to pick up a little speed as their arms reach out. But her foot catches on something and there's that expanding of time during the fall so that she has the opportunity to really consider the situation she has gotten herself into here. Not a great one.

Bumping back to earth it isn't even surprising that the cause of her tripping isn't a gravestone or ornament or tree root but a hand sprouting from the ground, clawing at the grass, a mound rising above it, breaking open to reveal a head.

Marianne kicks backwards on her behind and scrambles to her feet. Flashlight left rolling on the ground, illuminating the increasing crowd that follows.

* * *

In the morgue there is no sitting down or settling down of any sort. He lunges. Which settles it. "Sir, if you can't behave -" Héloïse dodges and skirts the edge of the room. He follows, shambling. Arms swiping out towards her, still this moaning. "I need you to stay calm -" Teeth bared he lunges again. "Right. You've been given ample opportunity."

Walking backwards she passes the door to the washroom. Pulls it open in front of her own face and, hearing his advance, leans against it, sweeping him into the side room. Locks it immediately, watching through the windowpane as he gets to his feet, apparently not all that harmed, and starts thumping his entire body against the door.

Héloïse takes a moment to recover her breath and rubs at her sore shoulder. "If you can behave yourself I will let you out. The ambulance will be here soon."

She leaves him thumping at the door and slobbering on the window and calls the hospital. Warning of a violent patient who might need to be sedated. Not going into specifics about his previously assumed status as dead. That could wait.

* * *

Marianne pelts across the cemetery, dodging another erupting grave. The streetlights beckon but she is off-course and has lost the path. A quick look behind confirms multiple pursuers - multiple in the sense there's too many for her to properly count right now.

She hits the short wall and hedged boundary of the cemetery. Literally hits and considers just following through and exiting via the hedge. But that would be an ignominious end, cannibalised while stuck in foliage.

Instead, she follows the hedge back to the entrance, though some members of the pack of zombies are now very much too close for comfort. Hot on her heels as she makes it to the road and bangs on the roof of the police car.

The police officer looks up and his disinterest quickly crystallises into fear as he sees what's going on behind her.

"Pull in front of the gate," Marianne says. "Block the exit." For a moment she's not sure he heard, or if he's just going to ignore her and drive off. But the car starts and pulls a tight turn around her. The metal shrieks against the brickwork.

Someone is trapped under the wheels and two others have made it through onto the street but the rest appear bemused and cut off by the car in their way. Not very agile zombies. Possibly the first bit of good news. The officer is already on his radio which should summon some kind of backup.

Two escapees are starting to shuffle off down the road though. "Hey!" Marianne calls to them. Quickly running through her options to keep them nearby and not off causing mischief amongst the citizenry. Looking at the patrol car which now can't be moved and has a very concerned-looking occupant already. Could run them around in circles until the cavalry arrives. But, ugh, running. If Héloïse were -

Héloïse. In the morgue.

* * *

Héloïse tries to collect herself but not two minutes later there is wild banging in the hall and as she stands to move, Marianne crashes into the room. She leans back against the doors. "How are we doing in here?" she pants. She is damp, muddied, and full of leaves. "Perfectly, I see. Good." She turns back to the door, fumbles with the lock.

There's a moaning from the other side. Marianne starts dragging a desk across the room.

Peering through the window into the hall, Héloïse sees an elderly woman and a man. Well-dressed but pale and gaunt and the skin hanging strangely. The same glassy stare as they claw at the door. "Those people need medical attention."

"I think they are a bit beyond that. But sure. Why not." Desk in place, Marianne lies backwards over it, still panting.

"What happened to you?"

"Oh, you know, the usual."

* * *

Having heard a wild story from Marianne that she would have dismissed out of hand had she not witnessed something very similar, Héloïse admits as much.

"The ambulance should be here soon."

"I wouldn't count on it. They've got a lot to be getting on with." Marianne goes to examine Héloïse's patient. He reacts even more violently, throwing himself against the door. Marianne turns to her. "Héloïse, that's a zombie. Just look at him. He came back from the dead on the autopsy table?"

"People don't 'come back from the dead', that's not how it works." She watches Marianne dragging another table across that door too.

Which she then sits on. "Apart from your guy. That's a fairly central part of the one paranormal story you do believe."

It almost provokes a smile. "I'm lapsed."

Marianne does smile. "Even worse. Residual belief and guilt about it."

Héloïse shakes it off. "If someone _appears_ to rise from the dead it's because they were never dead in the first place. Wrongly pronounced dead. Especially under certain conditions, like extreme cold, it can be surprisingly hard to identify which is why there's a whole series of checks."

"Except I don't for a second believe you would make a mistake like that."

"I must have."

"You know," Marianne muses, picking detritus from her hair, "that's the point people are most likely to accept something. When the other option is them having messed up."

"I've made plenty of mistakes. I'm used to it."

When she looks up Marianne is gazing at her. "Don't worry, you're still the only person I would ever want to do my autopsy."

"That's not funny."

"So what's your theory? A whole lot of people were mistakenly pronounced dead and then recovered consciousness having been embalmed and buried and the whole hog?"

"It's true there's no record of anyone having survived embalming."

"And there's a first time for everything. But the first _fifty_ times, all happening at the same time in the same place?"

"Unlikely," Héloïse concedes. "Which is why, as soon as can, we need to speak to the physicians, pathologists, morticians, and everyone involved in these cases. This is beyond negligence."

"As soon as we get out of here."

Marianne goes back to the main door. On the other side is grunting, heavy breathing. "Someone's having fun out there." A thud and the desk shakes. She adds a few more box files.

"What are we going to do?" Héloïse asks.

Marianne opens drawers in the desk. "Eat."

"No food kept in the morgue," Héloïse says.

At the same time as Marianne brandishes a packet of chips... and a quarter bottle of whisky. "Drinking on the job. Might explain a few things."

"Drinking while barely doing his job." Just incompetence everywhere. Héloïse was sick of it. She felt sick, in fact. And tired and wanting to be out of this room with its chemical smells and over-bright lights.

"Hey," Marianne starts to say but there's a different noise from the hall. "There we go," Marianne says instead, smiling over her shoulder. "Rescue."

* * *

After a few hours' sleep they are back at the cemetery again. Last night's horde are all under sedation at the hospital. Héloïse has been tracking down everyone even slightly involved in every aspect of the post-mortem industry in Derworth, getting updates from the police station.

Marianne kicks at the piles of dirt. "I predict a local boom in those coffin bells."

"They called them safety coffins. However they generally were not ventilated so occupants, if they were still alive, would have suffocated. Plus there were lots of false positives when the bodies moved as they decomposed."

Marianne shudders. "No thank you! Set me on fire and be done with it."

"I'll bear that in mind," Héloïse says grimly. "Often people who are incorrectly declared dead and then apparently 'resurrect' die later anyway, from going untreated for so long. But mostly you're talking a matter of hours before it's discovered. Not days. This volume and timescale is entirely sinister."

"Not incompetence but deliberate?"

Héloïse looks around, nods.

"Some of these people from last night have been buried for years," Marianne says gently. Just presenting evidence. Gestures to the headstone of a grave in disarray.

"Without an exhumation we can't confirm there's no one down there. They are going to be exhuming all day."

"Okay." She's not going to push it. On to the next question. "Why only this cemetery? There are a dozen churches in town, some with graveyards."

"Targetted?"

Marianne nods. "They are after someone specific and they haven't got them yet. If it's just your basic necromancy fun and games -" she ignores Héloïse rolling her eyes - "you'd spread it out a bit more. Or if you were doing a weird experiment, or just burying live people for kicks."

"Maybe the interviews will throw up some clues. Or perpetrators."

Marianne watches the digger ripping into the ground. "Which reminds me. I said I'd visit the family from yesterday. The guy you had holed up in the bathroom."

"Who is now in hospital. Have they informed all the next of kin?"

"It's taking a while figuring out who is who. You do the interviews, I'll see the family. I'll even drop you off at the station."

* * *

But when Marianne pulls up outside the station, Héloïse is thinking. She doesn't immediately move.

"Is everything okay?" Marianne asks. "Apart from the driving. I know how you hate that."

"I do hate that," Héloïse agrees. Pointedly avoids answering the actual question. Knows that Marianne will take this as its own answer.

"I didn't give a time for going over to see the family. We can do interviews first."

"No, I think perhaps I will come with you."

"Sure."

Some vague sense of responsibility for this. For this man, in particular. To his family.

Marianne chatters inanely as she drives across town. "I love places like this. There's almost precisely nothing to do other than go to church," she remarks.

But, again, when they arrive at the house Héloïse is not sure this is where she ought to be either.

She feels awkward as Marianne speaks with the wife. Never able to summon the appropriate words, the patient silences, the comforting gestures. Without being stiff and preoccupied. Probably doing more harm than good. She stands suddenly. "Excuse me, I need to get some air."

She exits through the French windows into the garden. Braces herself against the railing of the deck.

In front of her, a boy is bouncing a basketball with what seems like excessive noise. He stops and scrutinises her.

"Are you here about my dad?"

"Yes. I'm sorry for your loss." It always sounds better when Marianne says it.

He comes over and sits on the steps near her. "Are you the police?"

She sits down too. "FBI."

"That's cool." He sniffs pensively, looks over the yard very stoically. "What happens when we die?"

Finally, something Héloïse feels qualified to actually talk about. "Well, carbon dioxide builds up in the bloodstream along with toxic waste that is no longer being expelled. The enzymes in cells start to eat -"

"Okay, hey!" Marianne breaks in. She crouches down. "What do you think happens after we die, buddy?"

"We go to heaven?"

"Sure, why not. Is that what your dad thought?"

He nods.

"Then I think that's what happens."

"Okay." He goes off, ball pinging again. The resiliency of the young.

"Do you need anything?" Marianne asks her, still crouching nearby. "Glass of water? Coffee?"

"I'm fine."

Marianne levers herself up and joins the kid in the garden. "Nice court," she says and other basketball jargon that initiates her into a game. After failing to score, or whatever mechanic basketball relies on, Héloïse sees Marianne rounding away in frustration but then looking down at the floor.

"Hey, bud." She summons the boy's attention. "What's this?" She bends and holds something up.

The child moves over to Marianne and Héloïse follows. He starts desultorily poking at what looks like a smashed plant pot with his foot. "Nothing."

More of the pieces are being collected by Marianne, who does not appear to think it is nothing. So much so that she holds her hands out to Héloïse who, without really thinking about it, allows the pieces to be placed into her own. Terracotta looking, with black markings that - it must be some sort of special paint - seem to glow green.

"Nothing, huh?" Marianne's tone is jocular and the child warms to it. "Looks pretty cool."

"It didn't work though."

"What didn't work?" Marianne says quietly and Héloïse sees where this is going.

"He didn't come back right, did he? So I got mad and smashed it up."

* * *

Marianne has soon coaxed the whole tale from the boy. The pair of them talking like it were possible to find a mysterious bowl at a garage sale and fill it with personal effects and use it to raise the dead.

He is more concerned as to whether he would get into trouble. "No," Marianne says, giving him a hug.

"No," Héloïse says because there's nothing trouble-worthy in this nonsense. She leaves Marianne talking to the child's mother about grief counselling and goes back to the car. She calls the police station to find that the interviews haven't uncovered any damning evidence and feels aggrieved about the whole thing.

Eventually Marianne joins her in the car, waving goodbye to the woman and son.

"That poor little dude," Marianne says. "I hope he's going to be all right. I'll give them a call next week."

Héloïse, saying nothing for now, waiting for them to go back inside. Then, "Is that what you really think?"

"What?" Marianne asks, a little distracted and still looking out the window.

"The afterlife."

"That's a whole other X-File," she smiles, turns to Héloïse. Who is definitely not being lighthearted about this and Marianne realises it immediately. "Is that part of your falling out with the big guy?"

Héloïse is immediately uncomfortable even though she is the one who brought it up. "But is that what you think?"

"I don't know. Why not." She throws up her hands. "Maybe the brain can construct a fantasy in its death throes that carries us off into eternity. That or nothing. The whole point is you can never be aware that you're dead. Maybe it doesn't matter."

Nausea runs through her and she shifts in her seat. Proof that she is alive.

"You're a scientist, you know there's so much we don't understand yet about the universe. Subatomic gravity and quantum physics and string theory and dark energy. So much. Why couldn't one of those things we don't know yet be a being we perceive as god-like? Or a dimension we perceive as heavenly? A scientific explanation rather than a psychological one."

"You want to believe." It's almost an accusation.

But Marianne, of course, takes it with a smile. "And when did you stop? Teenage rebellion? Too many philosophy classes in college?"

"A few months ago."

Marianne's face falls. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't joke. That must have been really tough."

Héloïse considers it. The blue lights flashing. Reflecting off pooling blood. "No. It was easy."

The last time she had prayed. The desperate foxhole prayer of those lying in the dirt with bullets flying overhead. Only in the long grey days afterwards realising she had never really believed prayer would work. And, despite her mother muttering it constantly, never saying "Thank God" herself. Not even being angry. Just empty.

* * *

Marianne drives them back to the hotel and drops Héloïse off to order room service and get an early night. She goes on to the cemetery to see the place being fenced off and secured like Area 51. A day late and, she is nigh on convinced, now unnecessarily. Still, it can't hurt. There's a promise to call immediately should there be any disturbances.

Another stop at the police station where she is told some biomedical outfit has been hastily put together to take everyone from the hospital. Like a retirement home but for the post-deceased. Which sounded delightful. Far better than destroying brains. "Maybe I'll stop in some time," she says as she takes a business card.

A couple of hours later she is back at the hotel. Pauses at her door and looks at the one next door. She moves to it. No sound of the television or anything. She taps ever so gently. "Héloïse?" she whispers. Nothing.

* * *

On the aeroplane back to DC and Héloïse is writing up her notes.

"So," Marianne says, leaning over. "What's the verdict?"

Héloïse forgets for a moment she doesn't have to hide her reports any more. The instinct is to cover them. But Marianne is only interested, perhaps a little teasing. "Perpetrator almost certainly a medical professional. Not apprehended but no longer active thanks to the investigation."

"Right, right," Marianne smiles. Definitely teasing.

"And yours?"

"Ancient artefact: destroyed. Remains of which are in FBI custody -" she shakes her rucksack and Héloïse can hear the pieces - "until they can be distributed to the ends of the earth."

"Do you never think about writing something a little more plausible, for the case files? Even if you don't believe it."

She's braced for something but Marianne simply says, "No," as though it genuinely had never occurred to her, even now.

Héloïse shakes her head. "I admire your dedication. But not everyone does."

"Tell me about it," Marianne concedes ruefully, looking as though she is going to breeze past the earlier part. But she continues. "Thank you," she says quietly, to which Héloïse can only nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe I watched _Night of the Living Dead_ for this. This is heavy "You found the last known urn of Osiris on eBay?" _Buffy_ vibes. And a bit Hollywood AD's ( _The X-Files_ s7 e19) Bowl of Lazarus. And a bit of the imaginatively named pilot episode, Pilot. And mostly silliness.


	7. Chaotic Good, Heavy On the Chaotic

"I got you a present," is the first thing Héloïse says as she comes through the office door.

Marianne is sat at her desk and brightens, which makes Héloïse feels bad. "How did you know -" Marianne is asking as Héloïse tosses over the flashlight.

"That you lost your flashlight in the cemetery last week? Because you've mentioned it every day since then."

"Thanks." She examines the torch, weighing it in her hands. "Good timing, too. We're leaving the safely boring confines of the J. Edgar Hoover Building and heading to New Jersey."

"What's in New Jersey?"

"Lots of things. Six Flags. Atlantic City. The Jersey Devil." Marianne is smiling. "Specifically, a good old-fashioned Satanic panic. Haven't had one of those in a while."

"Is that scepticism in your voice? Why would you think it's not Satanists?"

"Demons are real -"

Héloïse bites her tongue.

"But for every genuine demon summoning you've got probably a hundred moral panics. And so far there's no evidence of demons here, just people getting apoplectic about kids listening to rock music they think is programmed with messages from the devil. Or something."

* * *

Speaking of rock music, as they settle into Héloïse's car for the three-hour drive, Marianne says, "I got _myself_ a present," and pulls a box out her backpack. A Walkman. "Or maybe it's for you too. Of benefit to both," she concludes amiably as she puts the batteries in.

Héloïse changes the tape in the stereo once they get on the road toward Baltimore. "Do you know what this is?" In a slightly less amiable tone.

"Do _you_ know who has two thumbs and took a music appreciation class at university? This guy." Marianne points said thumbs at herself. "It's the Brandenburg Concertos."

"And I'm sure you know about the Voyager Golden Record."

"Our present to the aliens. And one of the Brandenburg Concertos is on it. Along with, I'd like to point out, Johnny B. Goode," Marianne says with satisfaction.

"So it's the first piece of music on a record sent out into space for the benefit of your aliens. The best of what this planet has to offer."

"Good for the aliens. But I have to live on this planet so I need to get angry and yell."

Héloïse's crusade shudders to a halt. "You do?" A worried glance over.

"Sometimes, yes." Marianne looks back, almost apologetic.

And Héloïse has no idea what to say. She's not sure that Marianne actually presses play on the Walkman, either.

* * *

Marianne looks at the map as they draw closer to Leebrook. "If we just take a turn up here we can go to one of the so-called "sites of occult activity" before we get into town."

"Fine. But it's getting past lunch, we need to find the detective, we haven't got a hotel booked..."

"We're just getting a head start. Be on our way again soon. There, this one."

Héloïse sighs and pulls onto the track heading into the woods.

* * *

**October 13, 1993**  
**Leebrook, New Jersey**

Héloïse opens the car door and looks down into the mud. Marianne, unencumbered by such concerns in her boots, is already halfway down the trail.

"Come on, we're not actually in Jersey Devil country, don't worry," Marianne's voice rings out. Crows rise from the trees.

There's an ungainly hop, launching herself across the churned up patch that seems to function as the parking area. She hurries after Marianne.

Police tape is strung up between trees but no officers around. Héloïse is nearly caught up as Marianne ducks underneath. "Cool," she says and Héloïse braces herself for something grotesque. But it's just a series of marks on the ground. Dug into the mud, arranged with stones and branches. A series of marks that solidify in her mind as a very decorative pentagram.

"Animal blood was found here in the centre," Marianne says, moving closer to it.

"Marianne, wait, you shouldn't just be wandering into a pentagram."

Marianne grins over her shoulder, still wandering into a pentagram. "I thought you didn't believe in -" and collapses.

"What did I say?" Héloïse mutters, approaching the pile of Marianne. "Are you all right?" Tripping everywhere, falling down holes... There's no answer.

She's two strides away from disobeying her own advice without hesitation when Marianne sits up, putting a hand to her head, and Héloïse relaxes.

"I told you so," Héloïse says. Triumphant, if not a little shaken.

The triumph quickly fading as Marianne turns to her. "Who are you?"

"Marianne, get out of there, right now."

"How do you know my name?" She looks around her. "Is this a spell? Awesome!"

"Marianne, this instant!" Héloïse channels her best school teacher.

It works. "Yes ma'am!" Marianne scrambles to her feet and makes her way out of the chalk.

Héloïse gets a hold of her for a better look. "Who's president?"

"Jimmy Carter. For now."

It's an indefinable something. "What year is it?"

"1980?"

It's a roundness in her cheeks, a dusting of acne across her chin, something a little lighter around her eyes. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen. Can I - do I get a question now?"

Héloïse's hands, on Marianne's shoulders, are too low. Which is impossible. You can't lose a few inches like that.

Héloïse reels herself in. Tries to remember that despite her panic she is not the most important factor here. "Of course."

"What's going on?"

"I don't know if I should take you to the hospital. You've got some sort of amnesia."

"I'm fine," Marianne protests.

Héloïse knows that line. "Look at me." She shines her flashlight in Marianne's eyes. Leading to further protestations. "Did you hit your head when you fell?"

"I don't remember falling."

She hadn't, Héloïse had seen it all. "I don't think you've got any head trauma." But something is definitely amiss.

"Well then, we're all good. Just, where am I?"

* * *

Having made Marianne wander back in and out of the pentagram in the woods for a while, to no avail, Héloïse gets them back in the car with a brief diversion to persuade Marianne she has to wear her seatbelt because it is in fact the law, now, in 1993. Héloïse really rather desperately needs something to eat and drink and the excuse to sit down without needing to drive. So they pull over at the first diner they come to.

Marianne, apparently unperturbed by any of this, dips fries into her milkshake. "So... what's the date?"

"Wednesday October 13th, 1993."

"October 13th! It's my birthday."

Oh. "Well, happy birthday, I suppose." Then, remembering earlier. I got you a present. Marianne's face. Just for a moment. Taking a breath.

"So what happened?"

"I watched you walk into that circle and then..." She indicates the Marianne currently sitting in front of her. "Some sort of amnesia."

"Did I time travel? How come I don't remember?"

"Honestly, I have no idea."

"So are we, like, friends?"

Héloïse hesitates a moment. "Colleagues."

"Oh." Something in Marianne slumps a little. "I thought it would be neat if I grew up and had a friend like you. I don't... I don't really have any friends." She gets embarrassed and blushes and contemplates the dwindling remains of her milkshake very deeply.

Héloïse finds, despite feeling weakly exhausted, that she can't eat. She pushes her sandwich over the table to Marianne.

"What's our job?"

" _You_ don't have a job, you are officially off sick."

"It says on this badge thing..." she fishes Marianne's ID out of her pocket, "FBI. Is that me? I look like a dork."

Héloïse frowns, looks over. "No, that's you." Defensive. "Give that to me."

"So what's the plan?"

"I have no idea." The agenda has changed a little since arriving in town. Marianne is suffering some sort of delusion and there is a whole case that needed dealing with. Héloïse is going to have to handle this on her own. Despair banished, resolve acquired, she pulls the basket with the other half of the sandwich back.

* * *

Héloïse stops outside the police station. "You, stay here."

"I don't want to go into the stupid police station anyway."

"Good," Héloïse says, ignoring the adolescent anti-authoritarianism that might not be strictly adolescent.

"Can I drive?" Marianne is looking through her wallet, examining her licence.

"No," Héloïse says quickly. "Absolutely not."

"Not right now, just... in the future?"

"No," Héloïse repeats. "Well, yes. After a fashion. But I prefer to." Héloïse takes the wallet off her, puts it, along with Marianne's badge, in the glove compartment. "On second thoughts, come with me."

She leaves Marianne sulking in the waiting room with instructions to the desk clerk that she is to be watched. Speaks for over an hour to the deeply disinterested police detective who appeared to have called the Bureau just in order to get this off his own plate. But the occult expert is currently out of order so Héloïse takes the case notes, makes some of her own, and hopes for the best.

* * *

Next they visit a drive-through that had been terrorised by a group of teenagers that the proprietor believed to have been under demonic influence.

"There's all those signs popping up around town," he says. "And they were laughing and screaming and swearing like devils. None of our kids around here are like that."

"So you didn't recognise them?"

"No."

"Any signs of drinking or drug use?"

"Could have been drunk. Knocked over all my displays and threw drinks over the counter."

At fifteen the greatest excitement in Héloïse's life had been stealing one of her mother's cigarettes and smoking it on the porch at four in the morning. Marianne, who believes herself to be a teenager currently, is studying the milkshake menu and notices Héloïse looking. "Can I have one? Please?"

Héloïse wants to object she already had one but she is in fact an adult and can technically have as many milkshakes as she wants. Except Héloïse confiscated her wallet. So she buys one and it is greeted with great rapture. A pretty upstanding pair of fifteen year olds, as she believes most to be.

"You didn't get any details of the cars?"

"Lady, I was ready to lock myself in the office. I wasn't giving chase."

An examination of the area yields no further clues. Héloïse walks the perimeter, Marianne slurping along behind her.

* * *

"What now?" Marianne complains as they get back in the car.

"We have a long list of witnesses to get through so settle in. Wait." She checks the side pocket of Marianne's rucksack. Fishes out the Walkman. "This is yours. And put your seatbelt on for God's sake."

"Rad!"

Héloïse feels a pang of guilt as much as she also needs to suppress a laugh at the enthusiasm.

"This is so cool!" Marianne yells over the roaring Héloïse can hear anyway.

"I believe they call it... grunge." But Marianne does not respond.

* * *

A few more shops and a diner down, Marianne remaining happily in the car attempting to dislocate her neck in time to the music, though she is at least still wearing her seatbelt, Héloïse decides she is done for the night.

Héloïse calls Sophie to find out about a reasonable place to stay. "I told Marianne," she says.

"She's forgotten," Héloïse answers. Whatever the reason for it, the end result is that she's forgotten. "She's..." Where is she? Turning around on the sidewalk there's no sign of Marianne anywhere. "Goddamn, where... Sophie, I'll have to call you back -" but then spots her. On the other side of the road holding a door to a store open for a woman with a pram. "No, it's fine."

"Okay..." and Sophie gives her the details.

Marianne ambles back over. " _What_ is _that_?" she exclaims and spends the next ten minutes examining Héloïse's cell phone which is rich coming from someone who refuses to use her own.

They remain at the diner to eat. Marianne, against Héloïse's medical advice, has another milkshake.

Marianne mostly only has eyes for the TV playing behind the counter. "I don't watch much television," she says. "I like the cinema though."

"I know," Héloïse says. "You've mentioned."

"Wait a minute!" Marianne has a look on her face of both horror and delight that Héloïse is completely alarmed by. "Have you seen the next Star Wars? You _have_ to tell me what happens."

Héloïse's heart rate begins its recovery. "I haven't seen any Star Wars."

"What? Wait, but there _is_ another one?"

Héloïse searches her brain. "It's a trilogy."

"Thank goodness," Marianne says, all dramatics. "You really need to watch them."

"So you keep telling me."

"Do I?"

"What else do you like?"

Marianne's eyes grow large. "Alien," she says with great reverence.

But of course.

* * *

Driving over to the hotel Héloïse pauses at the stoplight and looks at Marianne. "You all right over there?" She's thinking primarily of an excess of milkshake. Should also really be thinking about possible head injuries but keeps forgetting.

"All good. Thank you."

The lights change and Héloïse pulls out. As she does so a car comes screaming across the junction in front of them. Passengers hanging out the windows. Music blaring. Héloïse hits the brakes and swerves. Vents with some inappropriate language. A horn blares from the other side. She checks quickly on Marianne, who says, "Seatbelt," with a tone of approval. Héloïse takes off in pursuit.

"Get the phone," Héloïse says. "Call the station. Give them the number on your badge. Can you see the registration on the car?"

Marianne fumbles about. "How do I - I've never used a phone like this."

"Just dial the number and press the green button. Or the other way round. I don't know." She can't remember now, as she tries to break the speed limit as little as possible while staying on the trail.

Evidently Marianne manages it. "Uh, this is Agent Mulder. Badge number JTT4730716," she reads haltingly. "I need a - what do I need?"

"Check on a registration number."

"Right. A check on a registration number," and they are close enough they can actually read it. "Um, yes? Call me back?"

"That's fine," Héloïse says, gripping the steering wheel. "Well done. Red button."

The car in front overtakes wildly. Héloïse blares her horn at the car in between them, caught up in this nonsense but acting unhelpfully unaware. She pulls out a little but the street is too narrow, parked cars either side, the risk of pedestrians or cyclists or other drivers is too great.

"Shit," she says. "There were kids, in the car, did you see?"

"Yes. Do you think it was them? From the drive-through and stuff?"

"Maybe. Oh for pity's sake." Frustrations at the car in front. She can see her prey getting further away. Another intersection looms. But she is too late, is caught by the light. She smacks her hands on the steering wheel as she is forced to a stop and then swears again at the pain that ricochets up her arm into her shoulder. "Lost them."

"That was very cool."

Even with the lights on go again they can only crawl across the road and keep heading in that direction down the street. Well and truly lost.

Héloïse's phone rings and the seatbelt comes into its own again, stopping Marianne from ejecting through the roof of the car. Héloïse pulls over, answers the call and jots down the address. Manages to describe her location and get directions.

* * *

The house, when they arrive, is dark and silent. Héloïse knocks, rings the doorbell, peers through both front and back windows. Declares defeat.

* * *

At the hotel Héloïse faces a new dilemma. Whatever is going on with Marianne it is deep-seated and continuing. And Héloïse has no training on the upkeep of fifteen year olds. "But if I get you your own room are you going to sneak out to the cinema or something?"

Marianne shrugs. Already had a bad habit of running around in the dark. "Probably."

"Twin room it is."

* * *

Marianne sits on the bed, bouncing a little, and looks around the room. "This is a really nice place."

It's a dump. She will have Sophie remove it from the recommendations. But right now Héloïse is exhausted and tosses her bag onto the bed, intending to follow it very soon.

Still bouncing, Marianne says, "I've never had a sleepover before. Well, apart from having to bunk with other kids sometimes. Depends on the home. I don't think that counts though."

Héloïse blinks. "On the what?"

"My foster homes?" Her face falls at Héloïse's incomprehension. "No, I guess we aren't friends." Héloïse's own face falls at the realisation.

She gets a grip on herself because really, what had she imagined had been the case? Why had she never once stopped to consider it? "Come on, get changed." She points at Marianne's backpack. "There'll be some manner of pyjamas in there."

Marianne finds a pair of sweatpants and a band tee after spreading everything out on the bed. There's also everything from a tiny camping stove to a pocket-sized book on the kings and queens of the United Kingdom.

"Ready for anything," Héloïse notes. This almost certainly included time travel and alien abduction.

"Got to keep your bag packed," Marianne says seriously. "You never know when people are suddenly sick of you and it's time to go." Without lingering, simply accepting this as perfectly normal, she holds up a packet. "What's this?"

"That's..." Héloïse looks at the label. "That's the contraceptive pill. You should probably take that."

"Check me out. Nice work, Future Marianne. And these?" Little green and white pills.

Héloïse's throat closes up a little. "Yes. You need to take them too."

"What are they?" She turns the pack over in her hands. "Prozac?"

"They didn't have that one in 1980."

"Okay, what do they do? Potion of underwater breathing?"

"Something like that. I'm going to get changed."

In the bathroom she washes her face and gives herself a long, hard look in the mirror. The light sits just above casting an uncompromising brightness on her. Highlights the shadows under her eyes, the paleness of her skin.

In Héloïse's wash bag, her own tiny pharmacy. Her pain meds and Valium and sleeping pills and the matching green and white.

* * *

Because she was on assignment and in charge of someone who thinks they were a minor, Héloïse had not taken a sleeping pill and consequently had not fallen asleep until four o'clock despite being exhausted. Exhaustion and sleep no longer correlated. Body and brain at constant war over her state of consciousness.

Marianne had been awake at seven. Watching cartoons, albeit very quietly. It had been enough to wake Héloïse up after a mere three hours. She needed a coffee. She communicates something along these lines mostly with grunts and gestures to Marianne, who asks for one too. This, Héloïse is compos mentis enough to realise, is probably unwise and she has never seen Marianne drink coffee and there is undoubtedly a reason for that, however bizarre she assumes it must be.

That Marianne could just get herself a coffee, or, indeed, do pretty much anything she liked, does not seem to occur to her. It only now occurs to Héloïse that Marianne surrendered herself up to Héloïse's care without question.

"So what are we going to do today?" Marianne asks, halfway through a stack of pancakes.

Héloïse is halfway through a second coffee but is still experiencing some lag.

"Go back to that guy's house, I guess," Marianne says anyway, not needing the input. "About the car."

"Yes," Héloïse manages to say. The headline on her newspaper is about teens running riot.

"Well?" Marianne asks with her mouth full. "Who is to blame?" Reading the subhead. "Heavy metal, Dungeons and Dragons - ooo, Dungeons and Dragons - pornography - ew."

"That's your vote then?"

"I play a wizard," Marianne begins and Héloïse can see the enthusiasm about to burst forth. "I just, don't really have anyone to play with." Enthusiasm that wanes immediately.

"Working themselves up into a state about it," Héloïse says gruffly, stabbing at the paper. "Satanic panic is just that - panic. And moral panics of one kind or another have gripped humanity since time immemorial."

"Wow. You are so smart."

"You are too. Well, you will be."

Marianne laughs. "Stay in school, kids," she intones playfully.

"What do you want to do at school?"

"I want to be a psychologist. Mine's really nice and if I see her I don't have to take all those drugs they are talking about."

Héloïse isn't sure she can take much more of this. Nor is she sure she should know all this, that Marianne even knows what she is saying. "We'll pick that up at another point," she says firmly. Maybe a year or two. "Are you finished with your breakfast?"

She pays at the counter, Marianne stood beside her. Héloïse looks at their shoulders, almost touching. "It's strange," she muses. "You must be standing differently."

"What?"

"Your posture. The height difference."

Marianne looks utterly delighted. "Am I still growing? Am I going to get taller?" She whoops as Héloïse shepherds her out of the diner.

* * *

On their return to the house, the car is in the driveway.

"Stay in the car," Héloïse instructs severely. Lifts one side of the headphones off Marianne. "I said, stay in the car."

"Ten-four!" Marianne replies far too loudly.

Héloïse rubs her knuckles into her eye sockets as she walks up the path. She knocks at the door, reaching for her badge.

It opens to a man in his sixties, balding and grey. "Hello?"

"Special Agent Scully," she says, raising her badge, already looking past him into the house.

Then a flurry at her side. "Special Agent Mulder," Marianne says next to her, voice all gruff.

Aghast, Héloïse has one moment to react and then has to continue. "We've just got a few questions about some disturbances in town. May we come in?"

"Of course." He shows them into the hall and goes through into the lounge.

"Why are you talking like that?" Héloïse hisses as they follow.

"Doesn't it make me sound older?"

"No, you sound more or less the same." It was the words, more than anything. Héloïse makes a note to look up changes in vocabulary among amnesiacs. Were they not on a case this would make rather a good study. Were it not Marianne.

"Please, take a seat."

"Thank you." Héloïse gets straight down to it. "Is that your car, sir? Outside?"

There's a tiny reaction in his lip, a little twitch. "Yes. A strange thing, though, about the car. It was stolen. Last night."

"Interesting. The car currently on your drive was stolen?"

"Yes. And put back, obviously."

"Obviously. Does anyone else live here with you?"

"My wife, she's at work."

"You don't have children?"

"Not living at home." Then he gestures at Marianne, who is busy gawking at their surroundings. Scrutinising the VHS player in particular. "She a little young to be an FBI agent?"

"Two litres of water a day and eight hours of sleep a night," Héloïse says. "Good for the complexion." Kicks Marianne gently the next chance she gets. "Did you report the car stolen?"

"I was going to but then it was returned."

Héloïse struggles to stay calm. She could really do with a little help from Marianne at this point but she is too busy being a now-well behaved fifteen year old with no training or experience.

So she tries very patiently to ask more questions without an excess of judgement. Had he heard about the goings-on, had he seen anything suspicious and so on. Anything suspicious other than his own story. Trying not to show any more interest in that.

She makes an exaggerated movement of getting to her feet. "Well, thank you very much, sir, that's very helpful."

"Not at all," he says. "I hope you catch them."

* * *

Out the front door and passing by the car, Marianne leans in. "Did you see the pictures?"

"No?"

"My passive perception is really high. On the mantelpiece. Kid in a letterman jacket. Looked just like one of the dudes we saw last night."

"A family member?" Which was Héloïse's suspicion. A very bungled cover-up for a child or grandchild.

"No. Him."

"What do you mean?"

"It was him. That old guy. A black and white photo of him, when he was young, looking exactly like he did last night."

"I don't understand."

Marianne waves at her own face. "This. What you said happened to me. But him."

* * *

"Hi," Héloïse says as the man opens the door. "Me again. A few more questions."

* * *

"Who doesn't want to relive their youth?" he asks, looking at the photos on his mantelpiece.

The questions have been doing nothing but compound even though he folded immediately and answers readily. "But how?" Héloïse asks. "Some sort of hypnotic suggestion?"

"It's not a suggestion, it's real."

"It's not real," Héloïse assures him.

"It feels kinda real," Marianne says.

He peers at Marianne and she looks nervously at Héloïse. "I knew it. I could just tell. And how long has she been like this?"

"Since yesterday morning," Héloïse admits. "What have you done to her?"

"Remarkable. I haven't been able to make it last more than a few hours."

"How long _will_ it last?"

"No idea. All very experimental still."

"So how do we turn her back?"

"Beats me."

Héloïse considers this as an option, decides against it. There are children present.

* * *

The better option was to get everyone in the car and go back to the scene in the woods. It is even muddier now and Héloïse is even more impatient which is a less than ideal combination as she aggressively marches them all back to the clearing.

"Well?" she demands.

"Well we normally do it at night."

Héloïse is ready to spit. "Just do what you need to do."

"It takes energy for the spell to work."

"You mean you can't just plug it into the mains?" Pacing around the pentagram. Not really looking for anything, just for some outlet beyond sarcasm.

"You didn't light any candles, do any incantations? Sacrifice anything? Not even a chicken?"

Héloïse glares at him. He is cowed into silence. "I work for the FBI," she says severely. "I did not sacrifice anything. This ends here. I don't know what psychological regression or whatever you are doing but it stops now."

"It was all getting a little hot," he admits. "I don't know. Try again?"

"We tried yesterday." But sure, why not.

She beckons Marianne over. "Just walk in," she says.

"Do I have to go? Can't I just stay until I turn back?" She's scared, Héloïse realises. Because no matter the truth of it, it feels real to her.

So, trying to be as gentle as possible, she says, "We don't know when that will be. The other Marianne has a job to do."

"Is this real, though?"

"I don't know." Héloïse's resolve is wearing thin. Not with Marianne, with herself.

"Only, I don't want to forget."

"You're going to be okay. I know it might not seem like it now. But the Marianne I know is so clever, so accomplished, so kind. She's a really great person." The unfamiliarity of the sensation catches in her throat. "She's... she's my friend."

The grin spreads over Marianne's face. "It was really fun hanging out with you."

"You too, Marianne."

Marianne walks back into the circle and Héloïse is watching the culprit carefully. "Go on then," she prompts. He just shrugs. Useless. The irritation turns into something else. Everything else. Everything that has happened since the last time they were here rushes through her, leaves her feeling cold and empty. Marianne falls.

Héloïse feels dizzy for a moment then abandons any reservations and moves to her, skidding in the wet grass. She's already coming back around and Héloïse takes her arm, pulls her up.

Puts her hands on Marianne's shoulders. Gauges her. And it is her. The relief.

"Are you okay?" Marianne asks.

Héloïse shoots back, "Who's president?" Some welcome.

"Clinton."

"What do you remember?"

"We just got here and I..." She's looking around, spotting differences. Taking in their companion, the weather, Héloïse's clothes.

"That was yesterday. You don't remember the last twenty-four hours?"

"No, I don't. What happened?" Taking it really very calmly.

"You cracked the case. Let's go back to the hotel. I'll fill you in." She remembers someone else and turns. "You, I've a good mind to make you walk. But I guess you can come too."

* * *

"So, some sort of hypnotism?" Marianne sits on her bed

"He said it was a spell. Obviously it can't have been." Obviously it can't have been. But at moments it had seemed so real Héloïse had almost forgotten and been swept up in it too. Left exhausted and with questions she can't even begin to think how to form.

"And me?"

"You were fifteen. Well, you thought you were."

Marianne puts her head in her hands. "Please, are you joking? I was such a weirdo at fifteen."

"Weren't we all."

"I don't believe you were."

Héloïse ignores her. "How are you feeling now?"

"Absolutely wiped."

"I'm not surprised. You were very..." Sweet, she wants to say, settles instead for, "Energetic."

"Don't," Marianne groans.

"All right, no more." A pause while Héloïse considers what she's been planning on saying. "You know, there's a Blockbuster in town."

"Fancy," Marianne replies, obviously not knowing where Héloïse is going with this.

"I thought maybe it was time for me to watch Star Wars or Jaws or something. Get a pizza. A belated birthday."

Marianne finally removes her hands from her face. "That would be nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first chapter I started working on and I still have a real soft spot for it. There was originally more Dungeons and Dragons. Héloïse's anecdote about stealing a cigarette is straight out of _Beyond the Sea_ (The X-Files, s1 e13). The Voyager stuff is from _Little Green Men_ (The X-Files, s2 e1) and you should absolutely check out the [Voyager Golden Record](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voyager_Golden_Record), it's very cool.


	8. Not Today, Satan

A broom works over stone slabs. Pushed by the janitor in dusty blue overalls. Figures in red bustling past, their hoods drawn down low. A long wooden dining table with benches, studded with unlit candelabra. A huge stone altar set at the foot of a statue. Claws on the feet and hands, wings outspread, mouth in a grimace showing fangs, complete with twisting horns. Emeralds set as eyes that seem to glow somehow.

One of the figures stops. Looks up. "Lord Gangrok grows restless. The time is soon at hand. After all these years..." Looks to her companions. "We're going to have a party."

* * *

**October 29, 1993**   
**The Smithsonian Library Special Collections, Washington DC**

Marianne sneezes. The librarian shushes her.

"Do you have any allergies?"

"Héloïse, I never knew you cared." Héloïse has been making not-so-discreet enquiries into Marianne's health of late and Marianne thinks she might know why. Where this conversation is slowly inching its way to. But until Héloïse actually mentions it they both seem to be chalking it up to professional interest.

"No, but really?"

"Not that I know of. Plenty of things still to try."

Héloïse is trying not to smile. Turns to the console as Marianne looks back to the pile of dusty old books in front of her. The FBI had a shocking lack of literature on the occult so here they are in the Smithsonian doing some research. Someone somewhere in the vastness of the FBI calling on the experts in the spooky and weird. Resulting in a little field trip, which was always fun.

Especially fun now that Marianne gets to watch Héloïse frowning over the microfiche. Tries to remember her own work once in a while. Gangrok the Destructor, how to summon a demon, all the usual bloodletting, and so on and so forth... eyes drifting.

Héloïse's eyes flick up and Marianne reaches for an excuse, a reason. She moves the book. Too quickly. Knocks against Héloïse's coffee cup that should never have been brought in here but Marianne smuggled in. That now rocks and tips and threatens to fall under her clumsiness until she grabs at it, rights it. A close call. "Not today, Satan," she congratulates herself.

"I told you not to bring that in here."

"No harm done."

* * *

By the time they pack up and leave it's dark outside. Héloïse looks at her watch. "And I think we can call it a day. Friday, after all. Do you want me to drop you home?"

"No, I thought I'd go back to the office. I've got so much to do."

"Fine. We'll go back."

"No, I just meant, I do. It's all silly stuff. Crop circles and haunted houses and insect infestations. You wouldn't be interested."

"The whole point of my being here is that you're not doing this on your own. We're partners."

Are they though, really? Héloïse is here because she feels guilty. Though some of the disdain - for the work, for Marianne herself - seemed to be easing up. It still doesn't mean Héloïse wants to be getting into the slightly less official grind of the work that came with something like the X-Files. It is Marianne's passion, it is clearly not Héloïse's.

The point of her being here was to prevent Marianne from embarrassing the Assistant Director. To work off whatever debt Héloïse felt was owed. More a method of self-flagellation. So there's no need for her to put any more work into it than necessary. 

Anyway, there's plenty of work Marianne can get on with at home. Now she has to hurry to catch up with Héloïse striding off to the car park. "I'll go home but I'll get the bus. It's so far out your way."

"Get in the car," is all Héloïse says.

* * *

They drive through Marianne's neighbourhood. Windows and doorsteps shining with pumpkins rising several storeys into the night. Bats and fake cobwebs. Marianne likes to leave her cobweb decorations up year-round. And they aren't fake.

"Just here," Marianne says as they pass her building. Héloïse pulls over. "Any plans for the weekend?"

"No. You? Taking your broomstick for a spin?"

"Sadly not. But I am going to the movies on Sunday night with Sophie. Want to come?"

"No, thank you."

"We're seeing Hocus Pocus," Marianne tries to tempt. "Proper Halloween viewing."

"Of course you are. Isn't that a children's film?"

"Are we not all children at heart? Unless you never were, unless you just walked out of the sea like that. I wouldn't be surprised."

"Get out the car," Héloïse murmurs. "And have a nice time."

* * *

Marianne tosses and turns in her sheets. She's on a school field trip. Nowhere she recognises, not properly. Just the feeling of it. A hall with columns and red brick walls. It's dark and quiet.

She is kissing a girl made of clay. Pressed up against the wall and urgent.

Somewhere, she doesn't know if she can hear it or just sense it, Héloïse is in trouble.

The fear of it pulls Marianne back to waking. She sits up on the couch, so convinced that she checks her phone for its last call and rummages through her bag for her cell in case of any she missed. Nothing. It's four o'clock in the morning, what could it possibly be? Just a dream.

* * *

It is a phone call that wakes her again but now it's light. She mutters something between a hello and a yes into the receiver.

"Mulder," says the Assistant Director. "We have something of a situation. Or rather, you do. In your immediate vicinity, strangely."

"Is it Héloïse? Is she okay?"

"Agent Scully? She's fine. I need you to get down to your nearest police department and report to them."

"What? Why?" There's a noise outside in the street. Still only half awake, squinting into the light, Marianne moves to the window. A car is on fire down below. People are fighting. Windows are being smashed. "Okay, no, I got it."

* * *

The statue shifts and grinds, the noise of it echoing around the hall. Still trapped by invisible forces, still restrained in cold stone. But struggling and ready.

The robed woman stands looking up with a growing smile. She turns to the similarly-dressed crowd gathering in the great hall.

"Lord Gangrok has been awoken! His powers are being felt already. His resurrection only needs the sacrifice to be complete," she intones solemnly, voice echoing around the room. A break as she grins excitedly. "So! Ears here everyone." Peppy and earnest. "Listen up for your partners and your search areas. I know we can find our precious little hell-raiser in a lickety-split if we all just work together."

* * *

Marianne gets dressed, grabs her rucksack, and is out of the apartment within five minutes. As the door closes, her phone starts to ring.

Rings and rings until the answering machine clicks in. "Marianne, just stay where you are. I'm almost there," Héloïse's voice says to the empty apartment.

* * *

The door to Marianne's building is always broken. Now it is entirely missing. Outside the street is a running battle though who is fighting who and why doesn't seem to have been established. Just chaos.

Marianne only manages a few steps before she accosted not by muggers or rioters but by two clean-cut men in bright white shirts and crimson robes. "Excuse me, ma'am, do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Saviour, Gangrok the Destructor?"

The end of the sentence takes a turn Marianne is not expecting. Perhaps should have been expecting. "Oh."

They turn to each other. "This is the one."

And Marianne has a horrible feeling he might be right. Puts a hand out to give herself a bit of space as she moves backwards. "What's going on?"

It makes no difference. The pair of them seize her arms. For all they look mild-mannered they are strong and breathe in the violence with satisfaction. "You're coming with us."

"No," comes the retort. Not from Marianne but, a few metres away, Héloïse.

The surprise of it clears away everything else. "What are you doing here?"

Her gun is out and she frowns down the barrel. "I came for you." Popular all of a sudden. "Let her go," Héloïse commands. The gun commands.

"Héloïse, don't."

"I can make the shot."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

There's indecision. A tremor.

"It's okay," Marianne says. "Good," as Héloïse's arms fall. She came. She's here. "Hey, so, you remember yesterday? Not today. Yesterday."

Something blooms on Héloïse's face and Marianne hopes it's realisation and not derision. "I remember."

Next to her the caped man mutters a few words and there's smoke and a flash and Marianne is standing in a grand hall. "Don't get me wrong, I'm mad about being kidnapped - someone else is going to be mad too - but that was very cool."

* * *

Héloïse darts through the cloud of whatever smoke bomb Marianne's captors used to obscure their escape and looks along the street. But has lost them. "Shit." She should have taken the shot. Now a federal agent has been abducted right from under her nose.

She gets on the phone to the office where all hands are on deck, Saturday morning or no. "Sophie, they've taken Marianne. Whoever is behind this."

There's a moment. "Where?" A strain in the voice.

"I don't know but I think Marianne might. I need to go back to the Smithsonian."

"Can - can I come?"

* * *

Héloïse piles books up on the table, trying to remember what Marianne had been working on. All those times her eyes had slid over - to see Marianne chewing a pencil, running a hand through her hair - she'd never noticed what Marianne was actually reading.

Soon Sophie is there too, wide-eyed and worried.

"Thank you for coming." Not just the extra pair of hands but to not be on her own with this.

"Of course." She puts her bag down on the table, gets right to it. "What are we looking for?"

"I don't know." Looking for some moment of intuition, of Marianne's intuition, to know it when she finds it.

"I looked on Marianne's file. I thought probably we should call someone."

Héloïse's hands fall still, resting on the bookshelf. Puts a hand to her shoulder, holds herself together. "And?" She hears papers rustling. She doesn't need to look. She doesn't need to but she will.

The blank spaces. Next of kin, emergency contact, all the details for who could be there, should be there if things went south. Really, just someone to know. Someone to care. It shouldn't be that difficult to have _someone_ , at least one person. A boyfriend or a - a girlfriend or a best friend or even just a random cousin in Iowa.

"Does she have family in Iowa?"

That was an error. "No," Héloïse says briskly. "At least, I don't think so." Who knew, with that one.

She pulls another book. A thickly leather-bound thing. Destruction. Sounds about right. "Here. This."

* * *

Marianne even has a welcome committee. A short blonde woman in the same red robes, flanked by several unspeaking comrades. "We're so glad you could join us. Lord Gangrok will be thrilled, just thrilled. Thank you so much for raising him. You don't know how hard we have been trying."

"It wasn't really intentional."

"A happy accident then. And here you are which is excellent because - Lord Gangrok? - he does _not_ like to be kept waiting. Gets his hackles right up." She brushes away Marianne's captors, puts Marianne back for an examination.

Marianne's attention is drawn by the enormous statue with the glowing eyes and wings that grate, rock against rock. "How long have you been a... a follower? an acolyte? minion? sorry, I don't know what the proper term is."

"I consider myself a loyal servant. In service to the Lord oh, I suppose, seventy years now."

The job had its perks then. "You're ninety years old?"

"I should imagine so, yes. Time flies." She smiles sweetly. "The name's Phyllis. And you are?"

* * *

Héloïse and Sophie huddle over the book. Chaos and carnage of the kind of the MPD is currently facing off against is described. The raising of the demon Lord Gangrok. Héloïse can't believe, won't believe, a word of it.

"Even Marianne doesn't believe most demon summonings are real," she protests.

"But if these people believe it that won't matter. They'll do it anyway." Sophie points.

Between them lies the book with its illustration of an altar, a figure lying on top, blood running.

Héloïse turns the pages to the much more practical and actionable: the layout of the so-called temple. "We need a map of the city."

* * *

In the lavish room there's a plate of cheese and grapes, a fire roaring in the grate, and a dress.

"I am not wearing that," Marianne says. The white dress is laid out over a chair. Entirely too much in the way of ruffles.

"It would be nice if you did." Phyllis is pouting.

"Is this a virginal thing?" Marianne rubs the frills between her fingers. "Because whichever way you slice it I am definitely not."

"Lord Gangrok does not discriminate."

"Shame."

"Put it on," she wheedles. "You want to be celebrated eternally in the halls of the dead wearing plaid and, my dear, what even is that? A men's jacket?"

There's a fine line to be drawn between compliance and resistance here that Marianne is trying to tread. The less she fights it the further Phyllis' guard falls and thus the rest of the guarding. But nor can she follow too easily or events will go to fast. Already some of the comings and goings, the layout, is falling into place.

"Maybe later."

"After the feast?"

Which sounds like a promising way to waste an hour or two.

* * *

The bridge is at an absolute standstill. Héloïse resists leaning on her horn, knowing it will make no difference and only add to the general atmosphere of anger. She vents her own with a slew of barely-under-the-breath profanity.

Were her passenger anyone else there might have been the offer of useless alternatives routes or recriminations but Sophie only sits and watches carefully out the corner of her eye.

"Sorry," Héloïse says.

"No, it's stressful. I understand."

"Traffic."

"Traffic, yes."

The car in front moves an inch and Héloïse is ready, hunched over the steering wheel. But no further. She swears again. As a distraction, the radio. Reports of looting spreading, rioting in the streets. And that's quite enough. She turns it off. Leans on the horn.

* * *

Marianne sits in front of a hog roast. Apple in the mouth and everything. She'd make some lame joke but Héloïse isn't here to roll her eyes so it seems like a waste. "If this is a last meal sort of situation is it too late to say I have some dietary requirements? And really I'd be happy with a pizza. I don't want to put anyone out."

"We don't get delivery out here," the minion to her left complains.

The lure of eternal life, or at least extreme longevity, looks a lot less enticing without pizza. "You should go into the city. I know some good places." Gently, gently.

"We don't get out much."

"Could you, if you wanted to?"

He looks around the table then at her directly enough she can see into his face past the hood. Older than her but not by much. Based on looks anyway. She tries again. "How long have you been here?"

Feels the pushback. Loyal. Curious though. When she gets out and drags everyone with her the cult-busting psychologists are going to have their hands full.

"It's okay. We can talk about something else. What's your name?"

"I -"

Phyllis stands at the head of the table and everyone quiets. "Friends! Loyal servants of Destruction! Eat, drink, and be merry for in, oh, about an hour, we will be completing the ritual to raise Lord Gangrok to feast on the chaos of humanity. Already the seeds of disorder are spreading and growing strong."

This poses a conundrum. Clearly Marianne cannot simply walk away from this. Partly because she is technically captive but also because something is well underway already. Something she has started and is responsible for. Allowing this to continue, though, is hardly ideal either. For the state of the world or herself.

There is toast after toast to the mayhem to come until Phyllis sends everyone to prepare for the ceremony. To Marianne's left her guard rises, just a little unsteady on his feet. "You're to go back to chambers and get dressed."

Marianne is not going to argue the point about the dress with him. Allows herself to be led back to the opulent room, counting the sconces and noting the twists and turns of the halls. She'll be on her way back soon, hopefully.

He's about to close the door and has the key out when she tries again. "So what's your name?"

"Todd," he says, not making eye contact.

"Nice to meet you." Not one of the longer serving, name like that. Less entrenched maybe. "Listen, I'm a bit worried. Not so much about the bloodletting. More the apocalyptic destruction afterwards."

"Anyone who kneels before Lord Gangrok will be spared."

"The concern is that a lot of people are going to get hurt - are already getting hurt - whether they kneel or not."

"No one ever gave a shit about me. So what do I care?" His pain slides in like a knife. In his eyes, all cold and angry. Not angry. Let down. Alone. Afraid. 

"I do, I care about you. I care about all those people. And I think -" Dare she think? "I think someone might care about me - enough to wade through a riot on my block anyway, maybe enough to come down here too."

"Good for you."

"But two months ago I didn't have that. I busted my gut caring about other people so they didn't have to feel alone like I did. What I mean is, you can still care about other people and some of them might care about you." She really hopes that's true, she believes it must be true. His longing for it is painful. "And hey, you won't be on your own. We can get pizza."

"Go," he says. "Quick."

* * *

The asphalt is cracked with confident weeds and dark clouds hang low. Far darker than the time of day would suggest. Héloïse - speedometer climbing once free of the gridlock escaping the growing tensions in the city - brings the car to a skidding halt.

Sophie looks at the abandoned church. "On the one hand," she says slowly, "yes, I see it. Definitely the right place. On the other hand, very much no. Please can you wait for the police?"

"No." Héloïse is already out the door.

"No, I thought not."

Just before closing the door she stops. "Will you be okay on your own? Just for a few minutes?"

A nod.

Héloïse takes off towards the building. Rounding the corner carefully, her gun leading the way, Héloïse negotiates crumbling masonry, overgrown plant life, and rat's nests or worse. Somewhere there's a hidden door. Someone went all out on the clichés for their demon cult. When she finds it there's even the runic code to input, turning the stone circles into the configuration she memorised from the book. The door grates open and a winding staircase beckons.

Flashlight out and propped underneath her gun, Héloïse negotiates the stairs, terrifies the life out of an incompetent guard and leaves him sitting in his tied hands, then makes it into the main complex.

Which is a maze of corridors she barely remembers from the book but they curve in such a way she feels she is getting closer to something, perhaps to the central chamber.

Creeping along, peering carefully down the dim corridor to see a figure -

"Héloïse... You..."

Marianne. She hurriedly replaces her gun in the holster. Her fingers strain for a moment. "You're okay. Are you okay?"

"All good. Listen, there's a main hall and if I can just get -" It beggars belief but Marianne appears to be _not_ intending to immediately vacate the premises.

"No. No, we are leaving. Right now."

"People are getting hurt, right now, because of me. I have to fix it."

Stop, stop, stop. "You didn't cause this." Firm and needing to be understood.

"I think I did though. Yesterday at the library."

"It's a coincidence," Héloïse enunciates very clearly. "People don't start rioting because you nearly spilt coffee on a book."

"Librarians might," and Marianne smiles.

And just like that Héloïse loses the argument. "Fine. What's the plan?"

"You don't have to come. Go back and raise the alarm or something."

"I only just got here and you're already sending me away?" She tries for a reassuring smile of the sort Marianne is so good at.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

"Well," Héloïse shrugs, "where else would I be?"

* * *

Marianne pauses outside the excessively large and ornate wooden doors. Listens at the keyhole. Turns the handle very slowly. Lets it swing open. "Can't forget to check for traps," she explains. "I'm pretty sure we need to destroy the statue. Everyone's gone to get ready. Bathe in yak's milk or something, I don't know. Put on their best robes. So it should be quiet."

She peers around the door. It is empty. The remnants of the feast on the long table. Wine spilt on the floor.

Héloïse looks around the room. "Someone had fun."

"Not so much me." Marianne closes the doors they came through and puts down the bar. Moves to the smaller door on the other side, jams a chair against it.

They stand looking up at the statue. Héloïse is struggling with something. "Is it - is it moving? How is it doing that?"

"Can you shoot stone?"

"I _can_ but whether it will destroy it, probably not. Will attract some attention though. You've not got any dynamite in your bag?"

She's not got her backpack at all and feels like part of her torso is missing, thank you very much for the reminder. "I think you are going to have to shoot him."

Lord Gangrok writhes in his rocky confines. The low groan of boulders.

"Get back," Héloïse instructs her and takes out her gun. Marianne moves away, puts her hands to her ears and flinches as one, then two, shots ring out around the hall. Tiny chunks of the statue's head are missing and the movement only increases. "No," Héloïse summarises.

So she was right about that and she was right about the attention being drawn. There are shouts from beyond the main doors.

"New plan?" Héloïse enquires.

"You're not going to like it." Marianne was pretty sure about that.

"What do you need?"

"I need you to trust me."

"I do. I do trust you." She says it so quickly. Without hesitation. Marianne feels it too. Right in her gut. Héloïse doesn't believe, not really, that this statue is going to come to life and sow destruction and everything else. But she has come so far already.

The banging on the door is focused, organised, so it's only a moment more before the wood splinters and people start clambering through. The bar is lifted, the door fully opened. Marianne waits.

Phyllis arrives, brandishing a curving, jewel-studded knife. "Getting started already? My, aren't we eager."

A circle forms around Héloïse. These silent figures in their capes. "Okay!" Marianne says. "Okay, I'll do it. Let Héloïse go."

"Marianne, what are you doing?"

She rolls up her sleeve and holds her arm over the altar. "Let Héloïse go."

Phyllis' eyes are wide in anticipation. She waves in the general direction of Héloïse and the circle retracts. "We are going to need rather a lot of it. Your blood. All of it, in fact. You might want to lie down."

"Marianne..." in Héloïse's most formidable warning tone.

"We literally just had this conversation," Marianne laughs as she turns to her. Héloïse shuts up. Marianne nods up at the statue and Héloïse's eyes follow.

The cut is clean and fast. It still hurts like anything. Marianne bites her tongue. Watches the dark blood running and dripping from her hand onto the stone slab. Where it spreads across in a twisting pattern of runes and symbols.

The crashing of rock grows louder, shatters. With Phyllis still holding Marianne's arm the pair of them turn. The statue has cracked and under the layer of rock there is red. Only a fissure, growing as Marianne's blood runs.

Then the shot rings out.

Héloïse gets another two shots off before the screams begin. The sound of a vortex, the wails of something inhuman being sucked back to another plane. Stone crumbling and falling but not revealing the creature. Just rocks and dust.

The grip on Marianne's arm loosens and she watches Phyllis' form crumble too. Dust and the empty robes falling to the floor.

* * *

Héloïse finds Marianne sat on the step of the ambulance, a blue blanket around her shoulders.

"How are you?"

"Tis but a scratch," she smiles. "But really. My arm's not off. It's right here."

"Where it should be." Héloïse takes said arm, examines the bandage that has been applied.

"Is everyone else okay?"

"They are being taken care of." Héloïse sits down next to Marianne. Against that same arm. "So while you were off being wined and dined, I had to do some admin."

"You like admin though."

"Not this kind." She pulls a form from her satchel. Holds it in front of Marianne. Who looks it over. Her details at the top and the blank spaces of her emergency contact information.

"I don't have anyone." The way Marianne says it: so matter of fact, so heartbreakingly offhand.

Héloïse has given some thought as to how almost-offensive it is, how certainly-foolish it is, but is going to do it anyway. "You do." Takes out her pen. Hovers over the empty lines. "That is, if you don't mind."

She can't look up to gauge Marianne’s expression but her voice is flat as she replies. "No. I don't mind."

Héloïse fills in her name. "I mean, it's not as if I wouldn't be there at the time anyway." Writes her address. "They wouldn't even need to call me." Her phone numbers. "So it makes sense." Heart racing, blustering, utterly out of her mind. Just that the idea of Marianne being alone knocked the air from her lungs.

* * *

All the way along the street Héloïse is dodging children in Halloween costumes, adults in Halloween costumes, even dogs in Halloween costumes. A clown that might be a Halloween costume or just on their way home from work. Outside the theatre she spots Marianne and Sophie.

"Hey, you came." Marianne, not on her own. Nor Sophie. Because Héloïse isn't either.

The three of them turn and head into the theatre, the crowd thronging with people talking and laughing and bickering over pick and mix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The writer would like to thank [Doris and Mary-Anne Are Breaking Out of Prison](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCNkxGLp3Up3vAg3XEBSeX1Q) for the loan of Lord Gangrok.


	9. Eyes In the Darkness

A button is pressed on the recording equipment. The tape rolls. A television blinks into life. After a moment of static, a grainy image of an interview room.

Marianne sits at a small table peering back into the camera. Gives it a little wave. Just off-screen, a voice. "Agent, we just need to take your statement regarding the events of November 8, 9, and 10. Your colleagues will also be interviewed in due course. And yes, you are being taped for the record. So. Let's begin."

**November 15, 1993**  
**FBI Headquarters, Washington DC**

**Debrief transcripts Special Agent Marianne Mulder, Special Agent Héloïse Scully, Agent Sophie Pileggi**

**Marianne:** I got a call from the Federal Forest Service about some missing hikers in Vermont _and_ a missing patrol gone out after them. They were having an issue with the police department and the Department of the Interior were having a problem with everyone and the military was involved somehow because it was restricted access and trespass even though it wasn't their land... It was a mess and there were some capital T Theories being thrown around. So they wanted the X-Files in to check for anything weird. Like we're going to find Big Foot or something. Which would be very cool. But sadly unlikely.

Misconception, it would seem, in thinking that because we are the FBI we are there to shut down the people who might think it's something weird. Little do they know, we are not the debunkers of weird. Well, Héloïse is. Well, Héloïse is a master of rhetoric who could argue you out of existence if you gave her half a chance. Héloïse will debunk the weird. Myself, less so. Sophie - who is ace by the way - we'll see where she lands, she's still figuring it out. And, you know, it works pretty well. I like it, anyway.

 **Sophie:** From the beginning? Okay, well, when I was in the academy I was - Not that beginning? Oh, the case. Well, Marianne has been trying to get me a bit more field experience and this all looked pretty straightforward so she asked if I wanted to come along and squared it with the Assistant Director. Getting the distinct impression it might be my last field assignment. I do appreciate the gesture. Marianne has really looked out for me. She's super cool.

 **Héloïse:** I got into the office at eight-thirty, as usual. Also as usual Marianne was already there being far too enthusiastic about something gruesome. In this case what sounded like some wild animal attacks in the forest near Eustace, Vermont. All alarmingly normal for us. Marianne doesn't so much investigate the unexplained as embrace it with open arms. Runs toward it, generally.

 **Marianne:** So off we trot to Vermont. I say trot - we had to get a plane. We got there all in one piece. To the town at least. Stayed overnight so we were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ready to go the next morning. Some people needed several shots of caffeine for their brightness.

We met up with one of the rangers who I think was less than thrilled to get the assignment and his instinct was correct. I like to think he enjoyed himself. Fred Rubin was his name.

Checked the route and the weather forecast. You'll be able to see we did, there's printouts at the forestry station. Everything was logged. I might never have done a rodeo but it wasn't my first trip into the woods. I'm from Seattle, I know a bit about changeable weather. The forecast was grey and drizzly. Like it always seems to be. Felt right at home.

Also, you don't want to hear about Héloïse’s jacket but I want this on record. It was the best thing I've ever seen. I think she might have burned it by now because I mentioned it once or twice. Got real huffy about it: it was the last one in the store, didn't have a choice, that sort of thing. It was amazing.

So we loaded up the Jeep and set off. I marked it up on the map for you. We were following a service trail up to the forestry cabin. All conifers and mist. Very cool. Four hours, about a hundred miles. Sophie called shotgun. I think she was kind of excited. Fred was driving, to Héloïse's deep and undisguised displeasure. She and I in the back. And it must have been hours, I guess. Until the clunk and the Jeep stopped.

Héloïse and Fred had the hood up and were having a good old debate about it. Héloïse was all, "How hard can it be?" and true, cars are not rockets or human bodies and goodness knows Héloïse is smart enough but it turns out cars are still quite hard and she could not get it going. Sophie and I were giving her a wide berth, things were getting pretty heated over there. The epic battle of woman versus machine.

 **Sophie:** I didn't see anything happen to the Jeep. I don't know what happened. It just sort of shook a bit and then stopped. Out we all pile into the drizzle and stand around looking under the hood as though any of us know what we are looking for. So Marianne and I started poking around in the woods while Fred and Héloïse argued about... I don't even know. Something to do with engines.

 **Héloïse:** We did our due diligence. All the appropriate boxes were ticked. I know the procedures for this sort of thing. As does Marianne even if her adherence can be a little lax. She has become better at it now though. Now there are other people involved.

The journey passed without incident. Until the incident occurred. Sophie and Marianne stayed in the car while the ranger and I tried to work out what had happened. It looked to me like it was the ignition coil pack which is the sort of thing that should have been noticed before the ignition switch is in such a bad state it can fail just on bumpy ground. This constructive criticism was ill-received.

So we had to walk. Luckily we were almost there. I hadn't realised how long we'd been already. Our forestry colleague said there was a radio and supplies at the base. When we finally get there the 'base' is some barely-standing shack.

I went in first, at which point a man - later to be identified as Cal Parrish - ambushed me. Because no, I had not performed a proper sweep of the room which I know is protocol in these situations. Except one doesn't always know when one is walking into a situation versus just walking into a room. I defy you to tell me you enter every room like it's hostile territory - you didn't coming in here.

Right, I apologise. I got defensive. It was just a little stressful, that's all. Marianne was right behind me and we were looking for missing hikers which everyone had been assuming was some sort of animal attack - aside from Marianne who was definitely thinking about... never mind - but it occurs to me that of course it could just be a good old-fashioned murder.

 **Marianne:** So we arrive at this really cute little hut and I get in there just as this guy leaps out from somewhere, waving a chair around. Which scared the heck out of me and Héloïse was - well, there's nothing wrong with that woman's reactions, let's put it like that. So then there's a lot of them yelling at each other. But Cal had brought a chair to a gunfight and Héloïse has that look about her where you do what she says. Most people do what she says. She's probably pretty annoyed that doesn't work on me, come to think of it.

Héloïse went outside to cool off for a bit and I talked to our new friend. Cal Parrish, he was one of the missing hikers. Very shook up. As you would be, I tried to point out to Héloïse afterward. And that's before she starts waving a gun in his face.

Cal's story came out in bits and pieces. Basically, he and his friends had been fine the first day and had set up camp. Took all the proper bear-precautions and so on. But then one of his friends went to take a whizz and didn't come back. Then two others were looking for firewood and Cal heard some yelling. By which point it was pretty dark and he stayed by the campfire as someone else went to take a look... and they didn't come back. So he just stayed there, all night. Waving flashlights about, which is me-level self-defence but clearly it worked. Said he could feel eyes on him. Out there. Watching him.

I did try to say, it's okay. It's okay not to go running off into the darkness after your friends. That's a perfectly understandable and reasonable response. That he didn't need to feel bad about that. I think he was beginning to calm down and feel a bit embarrassed about the whole thing.

His camp wasn't too far away so he'd come over to the hut at first light and had been holed up there for days. Didn't know about the other ranger patrol, hadn't seen them. I believed him. He was too upset to be spinning a tale about it, poor guy.

 **Sophie:** I didn't see the disturbance in the hut. Though I gather Héloïse was a bit on edge. She came out breathing fire while Marianne talked to Mr Parrish. It's not so much 'good cop, bad cop' with those two as 'cop who will give you a hug and talk about your childhood' and 'ice queen death glare at fifty paces cop.'

Fred was looking at a map and trying to make a plan, Héloïse was just stalking about. So I had a sandwich. Why not? Marianne came out and we had a little huddle, the four of us. She explained what Mr Parrish told her - I guess she's told you all that? I don't have to go over it? Okay - just sort of where his camp had been and that seemed like a good place to have a look. Except apparently he did not want to go back. Which sounded pretty sensible to me, if I'm honest.

Héloïse did not trust him to stay though. She literally said, "That man is going to murder us in our beds."

 **Héloïse:** I had my concerns about the new arrival, particularly given his method of announcing his arrival. So I volunteered to stay at the base with him. I was certainly not going to leave him there on his own. Rubin clearly needed to go, and Marianne too if there was any investigating to do. Sophie couldn't be left on her own with him. So I did.

Marianne said I wasn't to tie this Parrish character up so I just kept an eye on him. Not that he did much. Just looked out the window muttering about it getting dark. Which it was starting to. But they had a very experienced forestry ranger with them, Marianne had her bag full of tricks, they were well organised. I wasn't worried.

 **Marianne:** We managed to find the campsite Cal and his friends had made after only minimal to-ing and fro-ing. Once we found the trail of blood that was a bit of a giveaway. One direction went back to the camp. The other end of the blood... well. It was a bit of a state. Poor Sophie was sick. I had to take some photos that one of our colleagues is going to have to develop. I did put a little warning on the envelope.

Of course really we needed Héloïse to work her magic but I covered the body up and figured we could get Héloïse to come tomorrow. Fred was busy recording coordinates and so on. We didn't find any of the other hikers but something had definitely happened. One of the tents was shredded and it was just generally a mess.

We headed back to the hut. Where everyone had survived though Héloïse looked about at the end of her tether so I assume he had been very annoying. Héloïse's threshold for annoyance being quite low. Have you talked to her yet? No, you've got that to look forward to. She's great, you'll love it. I briefly mentioned what we had found and she gave a very communicative glare in the direction of Cal so I knew exactly what she was thinking. Héloïse has seen some very upsetting stuff in Violent Crimes and, you know, people _are_ the worst. So that's understandable. Not that I would know because she never talks about it.

But what could we do? She wanted to arrest him - then what? We all still had to bunk up there overnight anyway. So I said we'd set up a watch. I love getting to say that.

We had dinner, surprisingly nice and with surprisingly good conversation and it was all starting to seem surprisingly normal. Until the noises started.

 **Sophie:** It was so spooky. We were having those dehydrated brick things for dinner and there was just this long, loud scratching noise right over the roof. We all looked up then at each other in that 'did you just hear that?' way. Mr Parrish starts freaking out. He was a bit highly strung already. Then it happens again. And down the sides. It was like... I was imagining a claw scraping over the cabin but it would have been enormous.

Mr Parrish tried to get under the table. Héloïse went to the window. Fred picked up his gun. Marianne just sat there listening.

The scratching turned into a thumping. Héloïse said she couldn't see anything, twisting around in the window. Mr Parrish was yelling for no one to go outside. Which was not necessary because no, thank you. Fred was at the door with his gun, looking at Héloïse. But they weren't going out either. More scraping. I went to the window on the other side and I swear... I swear I saw something. There was something out there.

Marianne said, "You don't believe in things that go bump in the dark," and Héloïse said, no, but she did believe in bears and had no wish to be eaten by one. Which I thought was pretty sensible. Even though I don't think it was a bear that I saw.

 **Héloïse:** The idea was we - by which I mean Marianne and myself and maybe the ranger - would keep watch. As it transpired no one could quite relax enough to sleep so we just sat around in the bunks and at the table. It was chilly but we had our sleeping bags and there were blankets. Just talking. I ask Ranger Rubin when we could expect his colleagues to relieve us and the instant - the instant I say it his face came over all stony and I knew.

The radio was broken. It obviously hadn't been the first time recently this bear went crawling over the roof. So he hadn't been able to raise anyone. And when had he been planning on informing the rest of us, I politely enquire.

 **Marianne:** Héloïse absolutely lost her mind. She is positively _foul_ when she gets into the swing of it. Which she very much did. It was amazing. She even had to try the radio herself. Just to check his story. And concluded yes, it was broken. Considering Héloïse was pretty far out of her comfort zone she was doing really well.

At which point I went to have a quick check outside. Through the window. Obviously. Still dark, still quiet. Except it had started snowing.

I think Sophie did actually go to sleep for a bit. And Cal. Fred was awake clutching his gun, probably as much on account of Héloïse as monsters. Héloïse was awake, fuming. I did try to get her to go to sleep. I told her it would be fine, we'd sort everything out in the morning.

And it was morning, soon enough. The snow though. It was really building up. Ordinarily I'd be the first one out there rolling around in it. But this lent a new urgency to things.

Fred and I were looking up at the roof at the aerial and he said he wanted to go back to the Jeep. We hadn't brought everything, we hadn't thought we'd need to. There was gas there that could do for the generator and stuff like that. Maybe salvage bits of the radio. I think he probably wanted to get away from Héloïse for a bit. Cal volunteered to go with him too, said he knew a bit about cars. Probably also wanted to put some space between him and Héloïse. If they were going they had to go soon though, on account of the weather.

Héloïse and Sophie were sleeping. I was having a look around but the snow meant there were no tracks. There were scratches on the wood of the hut though. I took some pictures, wrote down the measurements. That's all in my report. I didn't go that far. A bit into the trees. Kept the hut in my sights the whole time. I just didn't see Héloïse until it was too late.

I tried to stop her. But you don't know how she gets. The more you tell her not to, the more she does. Stubborn and contrary and I'm sure she would say the same about me. But in an annoyed way. I'm still waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat about it now.

She was trying to fix the aerial. The cables had come out, she said. The signal wasn't strong enough. I don't know. End result: she had a ladder and was on the roof. Shuffling out over the ridge. I said, "Don't fall," and she started with the "I've got no intention of falling," and then of course she fell. It was... No, I'm fine, sorry. Just a sec. Okay, no, I'm fine.

 **Sophie:** Luckily Héloïse was practically fluorescent. You could see her a mile away in any terrain. Zero camouflage. Which meant Marianne was there when she fell off the roof. I didn't even realise. There was thumping and I thought it was... whatever... back again with Marianne and Héloïse out there. I got to the doorway and I heard them talking. Then a yell. By the time I made it round to the other side of the cabin Marianne was digging Héloïse out of a snowdrift.

Poor Héloïse was pale as anything, holding onto her arm. We practically had to carry her back into the cabin. I figured she's broken it? She's broken her arm or something and we're going to get snowed in here and eaten up like that body we found the day before. So that's about how much use I was. Field experience! It was an experience that's for sure.

We got Héloïse back into the cabin, got that horrible coat off her and a whole bunch of snow too. Héloïse was trying to not to but she was really shivering and it was pretty scary. Even rolled up in blankets. So Marianne sort of sat behind her, holding onto her. Had Héloïse inside her coat.

Marianne was just talking to her and it was funny because Héloïse was sort of telling her off and I think that was what really kept her going, kept her focussed, being able to tell Marianne off. Though I suppose... Marianne was doing it on purpose. She was doing it on purpose, wasn't she? What did Héloïse say? You won't tell me. I don't think she realised.

 **Héloïse:** So it wasn't that the radio was broken, per se, there was a signal but it wasn't receiving or transmitting far enough. Had this been mentioned the day prior it could potentially have been fixed then too. But it was not. Obviously this entailed the roof and I would have been fine but my arm hasn't got the strength it should. So I slipped.

I was perfectly all right. A bit of bruising and I fell on my sore shoulder so it was inconvenient but nothing more than that. Marianne was - well, she needn't have been concerned. She worries too much. Not - no, she doesn’t worry too much, she has a very appropriately professional level of concern regarding her cases.

 **Marianne:** I was worried about her, that's all. I didn't know if she was getting hypothermia or going into shock or something. She could have broken her arm or dislocated her shoulder - she wouldn't let me look. I'm not the doctor. I should really do some first aid training. Can we sort that out? After? Okay, thanks.

So we got Héloïse inside and got her warmed up and... yeah. It was... But she was okay after a bit. I could tell because she bossed me into making her a sling.

What with all that excitement the day was flying by and it was starting to get dark, especially with all the clouds. The guys weren't back yet and the lights started flickering which I took to mean the generator was running out of gas. Which would have been a bad thing.

It was like that conundrum with the boat and the animals that will eat each other. Except with us getting eaten by something else. I couldn't leave Héloïse on her own and I couldn't let Sophie go out there on her own so it was obvious. The cans were outside in the shed and we still didn't have a radio so I had to get a move on.

 **Héloïse:** I didn't realise at first. I was in the bathroom, I had some painkillers I could take and I just needed a minute or two. When I get out Sophie says Marianne went outside. Which was insanity. Just utterly foolish.

 **Sophie:** Marianne, well, to be honest, she just went. There wasn't exactly a discussion about it. Um, decisive. That sounds better, right? She took decisive action. Told me to look after Héloïse and just went. Héloïse was very annoyed. Though, not annoyed, exactly. Very something. Wearing a hole in the floorboards.

On a normal day I absolutely would not fancy my chances against Héloïse but she was still not doing so well, no matter how many times she said she was fine. She can say whatever she wants, it doesn't work that way.

While we were arguing the light went off for a moment and there was a definite feeling of 'shit'. Possibly also Héloïse saying, "Shit." But then it came back and it wasn't flickering any more so I figured it was Marianne at the generator. Which is thirty seconds around the side of the cabin. She should have been back almost immediately but she wasn't.

So I managed to keep Héloïse inside though I was hanging onto the door handle to stop her leaving. Resolve wearing thin because I was getting pretty worried too. But I knew Marianne absolutely did not want Héloïse wandering around outside. We were fighting over the door handle - and this is a mark of the state she was in - that there even was a fight to be had - when a face appears at the door. We both do a little yelp because it's not even Marianne, it's Mr Parrish. So we do open up and he comes crashing in, all 'did we know Marianne was on the roof?' Which we did not. And also that something was chasing them.

At which point Héloïse was out that door. I've never seen anyone move so fast in my life. Fred was walking backwards, gun up. Sure enough, Marianne was on the roof. Fred started shooting, Héloïse started shouting... honestly, it was all go. Marianne was still fiddling with the aerial. I don't think being harangued by Héloïse was making her job any easier. Fred was nearly back and I saw - I don't know what I saw. Eyes. Everywhere. In the trees. In the darkness.

Marianne's legs appeared and she dropped down off the roof in a more controlled fashion and got dragged inside by Héloïse. Fred in last, still firing off shots. He and Marianne locked the door and pulled the table in front of it. Then Marianne got very told off. Again, I think it made Héloïse feel better. And Marianne let her. I was very pleased to see Marianne, anyway, even if she hadn't also managed to fix the radio aerial and fill the generator.

 **Marianne:** So I got into a _bunch_ of trouble. Which is kind of gratifying, if you squint. We were pulling on a lot of power - Cal had been there for days, we'd been running it all night keeping the lights on. It's not like the heater was doing much but I'd take what I could get.

The important point was that Fred was able to get on the radio. Spoke to the forestry people in town and the police about the dead body situation. The weather was proving a bit of a problem. Even though we were not exactly 'case closed' I was pretty eager for them to get us out of there.

He said animal attacks. And he saw something enough to be shooting at it. It was snowing and getting dark. But I was up there on that roof. It wasn't. I did _not_ say this at the time.

At the time we all huddled round and had dinner while I told them about my favourite book when I was a kid - well, who am I kidding, my favourite book - which has a lot of snow, _a lot_ of snow.

 **Héloïse:** Marianne got back from her little expedition, her little jaunt. Her words, in that frighteningly cheerful way she has. As did the gentlemen, making Sophie scream. After their own foolish plan. Marianne was successful at least. She did a good job. Better than I did. Then did a good job of keeping our spirits up. She's really very... good. At that. Those sorts of things. Most things.

Dinner consisted of those absolutely vile dehydrated ration packs and Marianne is trying to relate this story she likes but is far too enthusiastic about it and keeps going backwards and forwards and just generally not making much sense, though providing an excellent distraction. For when the noises started.

Which, one tries not to let one's imagination run away. But there is something unsettling about not being able to see what is going on. No matter that it's all perfectly rational. The darkness and the untold horrors that the mind rushes to supply. The wind howling and the visibility poor. I say I don't think animals have a habit of breaking through locked doors in order to eat people. Except of course Marianne and Sophie didn't believe it was 'an animal' in that sense. Getting carried away. So Sophie in particular was little comforted. At which point I just gave up and let Marianne do the morale boosting.

 **Sophie:** I know Héloïse kept trying to tell us it was a bear. It wasn't a bear. It wasn't 'a' anything. I don't know what they were and I don't think anyone would. Which I guess is what makes it an X-File. Out here eating hikers and forestry service rangers and such. But not us! Got that to be grateful for. Except in the moment I didn't know I wasn't going to get eaten, did I? Some creatures throwing themselves at the cabin and howling and carrying on.

Héloïse didn't think they could get in but it's not like the place was especially sturdy? Mr Parrish said it was something to do with the light. I don't think Fred was convinced by either of those explanations, nursing his shotgun. No clue what Marianne was thinking though she was remarkably relaxed. Then she blurted out, "Helicopter," and we were all... "Okay?" until a minute later when we heard it too.

 **Marianne:** The sound of it, I was listening to the sound of it. Haunting. I heard the helicopter and then there were spotlights coming down and being shone in through the windows and more Jeeps. The full force of the Department of Defense and goodness knows who else. Descending for little old us.

But ask yourself this: how did they know about the lights? No, it wasn't just standard search and rescue stuff. They didn't need to light us up like the Strip. Someone knows what's going on out there. And you can send them this tape. I'm on to them. Admittedly, not very on to them, I'll be honest. But I know.

 **Sophie:** As far as first official FBI field assignments go... yeah. Awesome. Terrifying. But also awesome.

 **Héloïse:** You've got my field report, you know my recommendation. Just close the area down. Get a proper team in there. I know what the implication is here - that we are being debriefed for potential breaches in protocol. That a search and rescue mission had to be launched for Bureau personnel, that I had to have a few days off, that proceedings got a little unorthodox. That's how it happens, here. That's the X-Files.

 **Marianne:** We didn't crack this one. But sometimes 'success' is a case of getting out alive. And we brought an extra person back with us which is a bonus. Plus one to the X-Files. There's your story. And now, if you don't mind, apparently there's a spontaneous combustion case that I am _very_ excited about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugely based on Darkness Falls ( _The X-Files_ , s1, e20) including the [obligatory coat shout out](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0751097/mediaviewer/rm1813654272/?ft0=name&fv0=nm0000141&ft1=image_type&fv1=still_frame), not once but twice. Also an homage to two excellent X-Files episodes: Bad Blood and Jose Chung's From Outer Space for the Rashomon-style format. With thanks to Soph for constantly trying to freak me out talking about eyes in the darkness. And to Shorts for the betaing.


	10. Where There's Smoke

A young man sits in a chair in a sterile little room. He wears a hospital gown and is sweating lightly. On second glance he isn't sitting at all. Thick leather straps secure his wrists and ankles. He strains against them as another figure approaches. The large lights obscure the second person, just a shadowy figure in a silvery hazmat-looking outfit who leans over with a syringe. The man in the chair arches in resistance, then slumps.

The other man steps back. "Now then, Mr Briggs. Try again."

* * *

The interview had been a nonsense as much as Héloïse tries to remind herself that oversight and scrutiny is important. Even if they do seem to attract rather more oversight and scrutiny than other departments. Hopping off the last step to the basement, rounding the corner to their office. All an instinct now, already. The X-Files, says the sign on the door. Warning to some, welcome to others.

Marianne has her feet up on the desk, reading a case file. "How's the shoulder?"

"It's fine. I'm fine."

"You know, I was there. You can't get away with that with me." Marianne wags a playful finger. "And I was at your apartment every day you could barely move. Opening your jars and bringing you food."

"You were. Thank you." Opening jars of peanut butter for herself, mostly.

But Marianne comes over serious all over a sudden. A cloud passing over the sun. "I'm not saying it so you can thank me. I'm saying it so you can stop telling me you're fine."

"Except I am." She whips the file from Marianne's hands. "What have we got?" Perches herself on the edge of the desk.

"Just a small matter of..." Marianne, recovered, provides her own drumroll, "spontaneous human combustion!"

"You know, there's no such thing as spontaneous human combustion."

"I had an idea you might say that."

* * *

At the medical examiners office they are met with bemusement. "There is no body. We pretty much had to use a dustpan and brush."

"That would need temperatures of over a thousand degrees," Héloïse points out.

"Over hours, I know." He shrugs. "But that's what they found."

* * *

At the scene - whether it is a crime scene or not is yet to be determined - Héloïse is looking for the burn site. Finds a perfectly normal lounge.

"Where's the -" as she turns she sees Marianne squatting by an armchair. "No. That's not possible."

"Apparently so." Marianne scratches at the velvety fabric. "Not a mark on it."

"Don't touch it, they might want samples." Héloïse draws alongside Marianne, who reaches out, and Héloïse is flinching even before their hands meet. The zip of a static charge passes from Marianne's fingertip. Héloïse makes a very restrained exclamation and shakes the shock from her hand.

"Sample that," Marianne says and starts rummaging in her rucksack. Pulls out a Geiger counter, which Héloïse is beyond commenting on by this point.

It ticks merrily away. "Slightly above average," Marianne notes.

Héloïse cannot get over the chair. She crouches down - further than arm's reach from Marianne - and examines it. "There must be another burn site. The ashes must have been brought here."

* * *

The victim's girlfriend sits sobbing on her mother's couch. Marianne sits next to her, holding a box of tissues. Héloïse remains at a distance.

"He was just sitting in the chair staring straight ahead. And the flames and he just... he just..."

"It's okay," Marianne soothes.

"He just crumbled. Into dust."

Marianne provides another tissue. "I'm so sorry you had to see that."

Fine, Héloïse thinks, trying to puzzle this out. He burned in the chair. There must have been an accelerant on him. Might already have been dead. The chair must have been treated. Very elaborately staged. There is a way round this.

* * *

At the police station Héloïse flicks through the forensics report. Perfectly average chair fabric that proved flammable in the lab. Preliminary tests showed no unusual chemicals amongst the remains. Héloïse decides she is about done with the day.

Marianne approaches, flicks at the report. Héloïse swats her with it.

"We'll come at it fresh tomorrow," Marianne says. "Will you be all right tonight?"

"Yes, thank you." Héloïse exercises great restraint in not saying "Fine." Also great restraint in not saying "No." So that Marianne will come and sit on her kitchen counter and eat peanut butter from the jar.

"Tomorrow will be better," Marianne promises, out on the sidewalk with Héloïse getting into a cab.

* * *

Phone. The phone is ringing. Eyes still closed, Marianne pats around for the coffee table and fumbles the phone to her face. "Yes?" Turns the handset the other way round. "Yes?" Sits up on the couch. "Another one?"

* * *

Marianne finds Héloïse standing under an umbrella, scowling in the grey early morning. Hands her a coffee. Takes the umbrella off her so she doesn't need to use her bad arm. Looks at the absolutely charred body in front of them. "Cause of death, doctor?"

"I would hate to speculate. Especially given yesterday's nonsense. You told me today was going to be better."

Glancing about, Marianne says, "A bit different, though. Yesterday, ash at home. Today, crisped in public." They are on a busy street by a bus stop and it is only getting busier with commuters.

"Unrelated?"

"I know you like your coincidences but two spontaneous combustions in two days would be a big one."

"Not spontaneous combustion."

"Ah, you're thinking pyrokinesis? Could be, could be."

There's a smile twitching on Héloïse's face that she hides with a drink of her coffee. "No."

"It is pretty grim," Marianne pronounces, looking at the blackened and twisted body.

"I thought you wanted to be set on fire?"

"Once I'm dead, not before."

"The witnesses all seem pretty adamant he was indeed on fire before he was dead."

"I'll have a chat to some of them. Police are trying to get hold of CCTV."

"Also..." Héloïse rummages in her satchel, "I printed you off some literature on the scientific background and explanations of alleged 'spontaneous human combustion' cases."

"You're too kind. Witnesses, CCTV, _literature_ , got plenty to keep me out of trouble."

"I doubt that somehow." Takes another sip.

The body is bagged and put on a gurney, into the ambulance. Héloïse retrieves the umbrella goes to speak with the paramedics and police leaving Marianne stood in the rain. She smiles at the articles Héloïse not only printed but highlighted - highlighted so many salient points she may as well have printed them on yellow paper.

An artist is making a composite sketch with a witness and Marianne watches for a while. Then lurks for another witness interview. These poor people, on their way to work on a completely normal day. Only to be confronted with something like this. To shake up the foundations of their world. Marianne hasn't had any foundations for twenty years. Went straight from monsters in story books to monsters in real life. Of one kind or the other. Books are easy. Can be closed at will.

But these people, normally their train can be persuaded back on to the rails. Not everyone needs to know. And if they can't let it go they have Marianne's phone number. Ought to make the support group official. Weekly pizza with former cult members, alien abductees, werewolves, people who have seen things the rest of the world will tell them can't possibly be real. Apart from Marianne. Who can't be there half the time because she's off chasing some new monster, dealing with some new threat. That won't stop coming.

She shakes herself. Looks for Héloïse. Finds her by the ambulance still. Catches her eye. Meets her in the middle.

"You're having the body sent back to headquarters to autopsy," Marianne says.

"And you're going back to the precinct to see more witnesses. Will you stop at that bagel place near there?"

"Why do you think I'm going back with them?" Marianne grins.

She's just about to leave but for a moment's lingering so that she's still there when a police officer escorts a tall guy in a long coat toward them. Shoes too nice for this sort of thing. "Agents, you've got company."

Marianne is about to launch into something about the shoes but the absolute stillness of Héloïse prevents her.

The new guy shuffles a little. "Héloïse."

"Hello Tom."

"How are you?"

"Yes."

Marianne looks between the two of them. Oh. Interesting.

This Tom character says, "They said this was one of those X-Files - so that's what you're working on now?"

"Yes. This is..." She turns to Marianne. Something pleading in her eyes that is new and upsetting. "Marianne, this is Tom Braidwood."

"Hi." Marianne moves in, shakes his hand. "You used to work together?"

"We used to be engaged," he says.

Héloïse rolls her eyes. "Can we have a _modicum_ of professionalism please."

That was... more than Marianne was expecting.

"She's never mentioned me?" At once a question of Marianne and an accusation of Héloïse.

Marianne looks wildly at Héloïse. Trying to work out what Héloïse wants her to do, wants her to say. Other than that Héloïse clearly just wants everyone to fall into a volcano. "The case?" she tries. Héloïse brightens. "We should get on with the case. Yes. Good. So what's your involvement?"

It's one, two, three, counting, waiting for him to follow. "Possible connections to another case I'm working."

"In Violent Crimes?"

"I never worked Violent Crimes. Financial Crimes Investigations."

"Financial crimes in spontaneous combustion victims?"

"Spontaneous what?"

"Autoignition," Marianne starts to clarify. "Compost, often, but in humans -"

"It's - never mind that," Héloïse breaks in. It's not clear which of them she is instructing to not mind but Marianne thinks it's likely to be her. Don't get into the embarrassing X-Files stuff.

Tom also seems to get the message. "I'll just take a quick look at the body."

"It's going back to the Bureau for an autopsy," Héloïse says.

He nods and wanders toward the ambulance.

All Marianne needs to do is inhale and Héloïse says, "Don't." It's not even snappy. It's beseeching and immediately followed by, "I'm sorry. Marianne, I'm sorry."

"I was just going to say I'll head to the precinct and get that CCTV and stuff. See you back at the office." She looks over shoulder. Back at Tom. "Will you be all right?"

* * *

Héloïse would not describe herself as particularly all right, no, as Marianne walks away. But she has to say yes.

Tom is also watching Marianne walk away, almost certainly for different reasons, and is back as soon as she gets into a squad car. "How have you been?"

"Fine." Héloïse starts heading out of the cordon. She needs to get back to the office and she is absolutely not getting in a car with Tom.

He's half ducking down to talk underneath her umbrella. Stumbles along beside her. And no, she's not going to make it any easier for him. "Look, I'm not going to give you a hard time or anything. I'm not - well, I'm not over it but I'm not mad. I wish you'd taken my calls. I want you to know I understand."

The incredulity sluices her down. "You don't."

"What you went through... It was awful. It makes sense you would want to change things after a close call like that."

"I'm fine."

"You nearly died."

This is a reminder Héloïse is not especially in need of. She is aware. She has been reminded. It only serves to demonstrate the point. People like him, her mother, her superiors, thinking this is the most important factor. Talking about her surviving. When all that Héloïse felt really mattered was the people who hadn't.

"But I didn't die, did I? She did." Héloïse takes a breath. Preparing herself to speak a name she hasn't for months now. "Val died. She had children and a husband and a life." Despite thinking about it every day. "Not to mention the guy I killed. Who was a criminal, yes, I know. Who also had a life and people who loved him."

She has stopped walking. Tom is right there, staring at her. "You didn't have a choice."

"Of course I did." So many choices.

* * *

Marianne brings the CCTV tape back to the office. Manages to make the computer and VHS player talk to each other.

There's a knock on the door. Marianne looks around. Concludes she needs to deal with this. "Come in?"

It's Tom, of course, also looking around and apparently deciding it's safe to enter. "You have the CCTV?"

"Just setting it up now." She waves him in and he takes uncertain steps. Looks at the posters, the boxes, the general detritus that Héloïse battles valiantly against. "I got some stick insects," Marianne says, by way of an ice breaker.

Tom nods weakly. "Why?"

"I just thought they would be cool. You'd be surprised how often insect-related stuff comes up. Thought I could make a study. I wanted a tarantula but Héloïse said no. Actually she said quite a lot but the effect was that of a 'no,' ultimately. She'll be here soon. Just finishing up the autopsy."

"She's doing an autopsy?"

"Sure, you know how she loves her autopsies. Got the bedside manner for it."

He just looks blankly at her.

The door opens again and a waft of chemicals announces Héloïse's arrival. She's still drying her hands. The faintest stutter when she sees Tom but forges on. Marianne does also. "Good autopsy?"

"Reasonable dental X-ray so that's an identification possibility. Otherwise, much as to be expected. I'll get a copy and the composite drawing to Sophie. Ask her to do some checks and cross against contacts with the first victim. You got the CCTV?"

"You did the autopsy?" Tom double checks.

"Yes," Héloïse says, paying him very little attention. Coming to stand next to Marianne, who is paying them both a good deal of attention. It's not like she hadn't know there were things going on, things Héloïse wasn't telling her. Leaving her to interpret the signal fires from a distance.

Tom takes up his place on her other side. Marianne providing a buffer of sorts, sat between them. She plays the tape.

A greyscale and grainy shot straight down the sidewalk. Showing people getting off the bus in jarring, skipping frames

Until a flash of white that surprises all three of them away from the screen.

Marianne rewinds. Plays it frame by frame. In one, the figure appears normal. In the next, a fireball.

They watch it again and again. There's no physical contact, no obvious weapon or missile. Nothing to go on at all.

"Let's see if we can get an ID at least," Tom says. "Can you clean that up?"

"It's a computer," Héloïse scoffs. "It's not magic." She shares the frustration though. "You can barely tell its human. It could be a potato for all we know."

"Or an alien!"

"Marianne, no."

Well, it _could_.

At which point Sophie pops her head into the room. "You'll never guess."

* * *

The ride over is what could be described as tense. Even with just the two of them. Marianne is driving one of the FBI's cars and this could be part of Héloïse's consternation but it seems likely to be quite a low priority on her stressometer.

Marianne recaps. "Okay. House. Bus. Now, store parking lot. Why there? Why now? Individual cases of spontaneous combustion or is pyrokinesis and someone else involved?"

"Perhaps." The tone is nowhere near scathing enough.

"You want my theory?"

Héloïse says nothing.

"Dragon. Case closed, we can all go home." She claps her hands together. Puts them back on the wheel quickly.

"Dragon?" Héloïse is looking now, though without any particular interest. Marianne would take disdain even.

"Definitely a dragon. Can't believe it took me this long."

"A dragon in a house?"

"Misconception that dragons are all large. We have very little data on average dragon sizes."

"Very little," Héloïse snorts but Marianne nearly has her. "No dragon on the CCTV."

"An incredibly lightning-fast dragon?"

"Invisible dragon?"

"Yes! Or tiny but very powerful dragon maybe?"

"I like the tiny dragon. How tiny are we talking?" Héloïse isn't quite smiling.

Marianne cups her hand, mimes stroking a tiny dragon in her palm. Hands back on the wheel.

Eyes follow hands. "Thank you," Héloïse says suddenly. "I needed that."

"I know."

"About earlier..." but she fades out.

"A weird one," Marianne agrees.

"It's not what you think."

"I'm not thinking. I try not to, in general."

Now Héloïse does smile.

"Do you still love him?" Marianne asks quietly. Gently, for Héloïse's sake. Gently, for her own.

The response is a blaze of anger and despair. "I never loved him. That was rather the problem."

* * *

The new scene is thick with cops, paramedics, and the fire service. Héloïse has lost her umbrella somewhere along the way and frowns at the drizzle. Marianne lifts the tape for them to pass.

"The day is failing to improve," Héloïse says as they look at the partially burned body for a moment before it is covered up. "In fact, it is getting decidedly worse at every turn."

"We're getting somewhere. I don't know where, exactly," Marianne confesses, rather negating the earlier optimism and possibly not acknowledging the entirety of the situation Héloïse is referring to. "But somewhere. Why is the burn pattern changing?"

"Why the locations?" Héloïse shoots back and they are about to get into it, Marianne feels her blood pumping - but Héloïse's gaze catches and when Marianne's follows it's Tom arriving on the scene.

Irritated supermarket patrons want to get back to their cars but are being blocked by the cordon and emergency vehicles. It's a very boring place for a spontaneous human combustion. Very mundane. She crouches down to look at the unblemished tarmac. Aside from all the cigarette butts and chewing gum. Unblemished from the funeral pyre it just hosted. Gets her Geiger counter out. Tries not to watch Héloïse drawing Tom away.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Tom says, with the tone of someone who is not sorry at all and is only preparing to say something they ought not, while Héloïse pilots him away from the scene - away from Marianne - past shopping carts and behind a fire truck, "but you left Violent Crimes for this?"

Héloïse is correct. Something he ought not.

"All that talk about concentrating on your career and now I find you running around after the boogeyman with that," his voice becomes urgent and low, "utter weirdo."

"Do _not_ talk about her like that." A warning finger and a look that cows him. "Marianne is ten times the agent either of us are."

"This isn't the Héloïse I knew."

"That's rather the point." It's good he's angry. Héloïse can answer that. Can meet it with her own. She is furious and ready to engulf anything and everything given half the chance.

The Héloïse he had known let her partner get killed. Had killed a man. The Héloïse he had known thought she could live with some facsimile of a life because she was too scared to do otherwise. Thought love could be Valentine's cards and bunches of roses and all the trappings. As long as it looked good from the outside.

This Héloïse - the one he doesn't know, the one no one knows - the Héloïse one person is terrifyingly near to knowing - is still far too close to the first for Héloïse's comfort. Which is part of the anger too. She can call off a wedding and change her job and it might look dramatic but in the day-to-day she is infuriatingly similar.

This Héloïse is walking away from a fight and back to the only real thing in her world.

"Marianne, we're going back to the office. Now."

* * *

Marianne does go back to the office. Héloïse sits in the bullpen with Sophie. Evidently she does not want to talk. So Marianne hangs about for a while. Moves some boxes around. Wanders upstairs a little while later. Mugshots flash across Sophie's computer screen, Héloïse pores over a list of names, crossing them off as she looks down another. Left arm tucked close to her body.

"Hey," Sophie calls. "You've got a match."

They crowd around her screen. The body from the parking lot. Marianne scans the information on the file. A veteran. Like the first guy.

"Tom," says Héloïse.

Marianne looks around. No. Not here.

"Who?" asks Sophie.

"Agent Braidwood. When we - when I met him he was a liaison to the DoD."

"Every time." Marianne snaps her fingers. "Every time it's a veteran it's always some covert programme."

"The military already know. They know the link." Héloïse surrenders. "The two of us can't get ahead of the full force of the United States Army."

"I don't know," Marianne muses. "Sophie, can you narrow the other searches down to military personnel? Start in the same regiment, battalion, heck, I don't know, whatever unit of measurement they like over there."

"Can do." Sophie seems to have got the gist of the instruction somehow. A list appears on screen.

"DC residents," Héloïse picks up.

"There," Marianne points at the screen. "That's the bus guy." Points back at the composite drawing.

"Same _squad_ ," Sophie emphasises. "And... one other here in Washington. Curtis Briggs."

The excitement picks up even though Marianne suspects they are already too far behind.

Sophie has already started printing the details of the remaining profile. Héloïse is already putting on her coat as Marianne picks the sheet off the printer and they head out the door.

* * *

There's a good deal of activity at the house, visible as soon as Marianne pulls up.

"He's here," Héloïse says. By which she means Tom.

"Agents," Tom says as they approach. "It would seem we are a couple days late." Marianne is surprised by the inclusion in the statement but he does seem a bit put out. "Someone has turned the place upside down. He's gone."

"You knew," Héloïse says. "You could have saved us hours."

"My superiors suspected." He's very diplomatic. "I'm sorry. But we have confirmed each others' suspicions at least."

Héloïse and Tom show their badges at the door and Marianne just skates on in behind them. The place truly has been turned upside down. Unless he is a man after her own heart and tolerance for a little chaos. She picks a lampshade off the floor. Probably been tossed. Puts the lampshade on the corner of the couch at a jaunty angle.

"Where has he gone, is the question," says Héloïse.

"Family and friends are being checked on now," Tom replies, surveying the damage.

Héloïse picks through the mess in the lounge. Marianne waits for her to look up, look over. Nods to the kitchen when she does. They convene and Marianne puts herself close, voice low. "If it _is_ some nefarious military programme -"

"Of flammable soldiers?"

" _If_. Briggs might have known what was happening to the others. He knew they were coming for him."

"You wouldn't go to friends and family. Too obvious. Too liable to go up in flames."

"What are you whispering about?" Tom breaks in.

Héloïse shies away and without her there taking up all of Marianne's attention, her gaze falls back to the fridge behind and, on the fridge, a photograph. "I know that campsite," she says. Goes to it, pulls it from the fridge. "Here."

"Close?" Héloïse checks as she moves toward the door.

"Wait -" Tom says. "We're just going to -"

"Yes," Héloïse tells him. "If Marianne thinks it. Come on."

"Not far," Marianne says as they leave the house.

Tom has his keys out of his pocket. But, "No," Héloïse says. "Marianne will drive us."

* * *

It's not exactly camping weather, or the season for it, so the campsite has one RV and one small khaki green tent.

"I didn't know you went camping," Héloïse says.

"I don't. When do I have time to go camping? I know a werewolf who hangs out here once a month."

"She's joking," Héloïse tells Tom.

"I'll introduce you," Marianne offers. "Probably not that day, some other time."

She approaches the tent. "Curtis? Are you in? I'd knock but I'm not really sure how, on a tent."

He unzips the door because she doesn't sound like an FBI agent or anywhere near official in any capacity. However Héloïse and Tom definitely look official so as soon as he clocks them he panics and looks like he's about to run.

"Hey, it's okay. My name's Marianne." She holds one hand up over her shoulder to try to halt Héloïse and Tom. The other forwards. Out for a handshake. "I'm from the FBI. I'm worried about you. After what happened to your friends." I know what's going on and I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid to touch you.

He stops. He feels it. There's sadness for them, anger at someone else, fear for himself. And trust, as he takes her hand.

"We're going to fix this, all right? We can get you help."

"You can't," he whispers fiercely.

"They did this to you in the army?"

"They found us in the army but it wasn't them. Something else."

"Marianne," says Héloïse but Marianne can hear it already. They are coming.

The low thwapping noise of the helicopter. She turns as it hovers into view. "Car!" she instructs. Tries to put herself between it and Curtis. Héloïse is making her usual objections but inserts herself in front of Marianne.

Up in the helicopter - close enough now that it's causing them some trouble - a figure in a silvery suit, like an astronaut, like an alien. A long, thin gun. No noise at all. But even in the churn of the turbulence Marianne feels something pass her face. Feels Curtis stumble.

Curtis clutches at her as he slumps. She tries to lower him gently but mostly just cushions his fall. Héloïse is above her, hands hovering. "Are you hurt?" Rolling Curtis off.

"No, I'm all right. They got him."

Héloïse moves to Curtis. Tom is there offering his hand to help her up but Marianne remains on the ground, scrambling to her knees. "Hey now," she says to Curtis. "You're okay."

He is very much not okay.

Héloïse undoes his collar as he struggles to breathe. There's something in his neck.

"Call an ambulance," Héloïse instructs Tom.

"Curtis," Héloïse says with that voice that must be heeded. "Do you know what they've given you? Are you on any medication?"

He shakes his head and then cries out. Héloïse's hands retract. There's steam coming off him, Marianne realises. Héloïse's hands are on her arms, trying to pull her away. "Marianne, get back."

"Help me get him to the standpipe."

Héloïse looks to it, is calculating the distance. Nods and takes hold of one arm, Marianne gets the other. But he yells again and there's a flame. Maybe his hands, Marianne thinks vaguely. Not that it matters. It happens so fast. Curtis screams and they try to roll him. Héloïse is here fighting it too but it's too fast, too hot. In a matter of seconds he's a white flash. Héloïse pulls Marianne back again.

Marianne turns her head. Turns into Héloïse. The helicopter is pulling away. Tom is still shouting into his cellphone. There's a pile of ash in front of them.

* * *

The ambulance turns up anyway and some forensics people that Tom directs. Marianne sits sideways in the car seat staring at the ground where she keeps seeing a man going up in flames.

Héloïse crouches down by her. "Do you want the paramedics to have a look at your hands?"

Marianne shakes her head.

"Can _I_ have a look at your hands?"

Marianne holds them out. One of Héloïse's own has a light bandage on. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It's this cream. It's good stuff."

Her hands are only a little pink. Tingling. "I led them right to him. They must have been following us."

"You don't know that." She squirts some of the clear gel into each of Marianne's palms. "Rub. Gently."

She does know that.

"Marianne. They could have tracked him or found out from a friend or figured it out or - lots of ways."

She rubs her hands together. Winces.

"Gently, I said," Héloïse tuts. "I'm sorry it didn't work out better. I really am. You did your best. You gave him a chance. But that's it now. Case closed."

"Case barely opened," Marianne replies.

* * *

Marianne is sad. It is a very quiet sadness but it resounds through Héloïse's days. She examines it carefully but no matter the diagnosis it doesn't help. She knows the underlying diagnosis but this is an extra layer. Marianne needs something now and it's something Héloïse does not have.

It's not even particularly obvious and if Héloïse wanted to she has enough practice in compartmentalisation and denial that she could pretend it were fine. Marianne still smiles but the effect makes Héloïse ache rather than glow. She still makes jokes but they are pro forma efforts. She still deduces, by way of outrageous logical somersaults, the origin of the murderous robot cockroaches they encounter that week but when the methane plant explodes and they are liberally showered in cow manure she simply says, "Good job," and walks away. Back to the car where she neither puts on her Walkman nor has any comment to make as to Héloïse's choice of entertainment.

Marianne rallies a little with the victory. After they both have several showers and a good night's sleep. Héloïse sees the helplessness in the sadness.

The blankness that Héloïse had come to know intimately this year and, if she were honest, of some variety for a while before that. Marianne had recognised it and it had felt like a relief until the realisation of _why_ Marianne recognised it and just how deeply Marianne knew it. It had then failed to make Héloïse feel any better at all.

So Héloïse gets a dart out of the back of her desk drawer where she had imprisoned it on a charge of being Very Likely to Get Them Into Trouble. She cannot bring a dead man back to life and she cannot get Marianne to laugh in a way that lights up her eyes but she can take this clue and follow it to where it may or may not lead to justice.

Because that's what it is. Following someone into the darkness without question. Wanting to stand between them and the abyss. Trying to give her reasons to smile, despite the horrors.

* * *

"So." Héloïse slides a thin file across the desk toward Marianne. "It's taken a while. Had to do a bit of obscuring the trail. But I've got the lab work on the helicopter dart situation."

Marianne looks up like Héloïse has proven alien existence. "Héloïse..."

Héloïse immediately starts to backpedal. "It's not much to go on."

"I thought you were all 'case closed' about it."

"You've been..." How to put this... "Thinking about it."

"I'm sorry, was it really obvious? I was trying not to."

Héloïse, for whom the last week has been like living under an eclipse, a polar night of the soul, is floored by the apology and the very concept. But then, how had she shown Marianne that she knew, that she cared? She hadn't. No "Will you be all right tonight?" as Marianne had done for her. As much for shaken nerves as for bruised ones.

There is not even the satisfaction of having helped much now. Marianne had been rousing herself a little, day by day. Finding her own way out from under the cloud. Tomorrow will be better. And if it's not, there's always another one.

It does help though. Energises her further. They huddle around Marianne's computer. Héloïse reading out chemicals and compounds, Marianne looking them up. Searching for purchase orders, for import permits. Turning up dead end after dead end. Héloïse begins to worry she's made it worse by introducing new frustration but Marianne darts about printing things off and pinning them up on the board.

"This calls for the red string," she announces. An important marker for only the most interesting and complex of cases. Héloïse opens Marianne's drawer and tosses it over. Marianne twists it from pin to pin: her map of intrigue.

Héloïse retrieves the latest printout and brings it to the board. Marianne looks. "I'm not saying it's _not_ evil scientists at Ivy League schools doing secret experiments but I do think it's less likely."

So Héloïse duly crosses off the colleges and other research organisations with a veneer of respectability and therefore scrutiny, stakeholders, and other obstacles to nefariousness.

Marianne looks at what's left. "Hm. Major pharmaceutical companies almost certainly are evil but are they evil in this particular way?"

"There are legitimate reasons for them to need these supplies. Corresponding to their output." Which is currently keeping both of us more or less sane, Héloïse does not point out. Can Marianne profile companies like she does people? "What's your instinct?"

"Small. Nondescript. Several layers of legitimacy away from anything real. Headquartered in Panama."

Héloïse scans the list and goes back to the computer. A few quick checks later... "QQ Labs. Parent company is some anonymous nonsense. Guess where they are registered for tax purposes? Not Panama at least: the Caymans."

"Fancy."

It's the only one on the list that fits Marianne's bill. However. This still fails to get them closer unless they can get something more concrete. But when they part ways for the day Marianne seems buoyed still and promises to get a good night's sleep and eat some vegetables. Which can't hurt.

* * *

On the way into the office the next morning Héloïse asks Sophie if she can do more digging to see what turns up.

Some time later Sophie knocks on the door. "I've not been able to turn up much, not yet anyway. But there's a big fundraiser for veterans charities tomorrow." She holds some sort of notice or invitation.

Héloïse takes it and scans it quickly. "That's serious business," she says. "Do we think someone connected might be there?"

Sophie shrugs. Héloïse reads it again. Passes it to Marianne. "Might be worth a shot," Sophie says. "Go along. Make some discreet enquiries."

"Hey, know any secret flame-based experiments recruiting veterans?" Marianne does some approximation of the convivial back-slapping tone.

"We can't," Héloïse says. "Marianne would lower the tone of a frat party never mind black tie."

"So _rude_ ," Marianne smiles. "But true. Thank you, Sophie. It's a great idea, good thinking. I don't think we can though." She surrenders the notice back. "Tickets are about a thousand dollars."

"Four hundred," Sophie amends.

"Same difference. The department won't pay for them and probably shouldn't even know we are going, officially. I haven't got four hundred dollars and even then we'd have to go on some sort of list. They'd see us coming a mile off."

Héloïse wonders whether to float this. Decides, for the sake of the case, for the sake of Marianne, to go ahead. "We do know someone involved in veteran's affairs."

Marianne perks up. "You think Tom is going?"

* * *

Héloïse corners Tom outside his office. Marianne is with her, for backup. Or she's with Marianne for backup. Depending on how this goes it might need Marianne to smooth things over.

His look is entirely suspicious and rightfully so.

"Tom, I need your help."

Shuffles his coat over his arm. "Yes?"

They walk a little way down the corridor before Héloïse says, "Are you going to the fundraiser on Saturday?"

"Yes," he replies warily.

"We need to go."

"What are you up to? This is about that case?"

"We need to meet someone there."

"Why not just interview them properly? Is this off-book?" He glances around for witnesses.

"What book?" Marianne asks. Which is true enough as far as she is concerned. Untroubled by rules and regulations.

He sighs. Looks at Héloïse. "I've got a plus one."

Absolutely not. They might be reaching a detente of sorts but there is no way she is going to hang off his arm. "No."

"Marianne then?"

That might be worse. Marianne is watching, waiting. She won't agree to anything without Héloïse's say so, of course she won't. And Héloïse has committed to this. To wherever this goes. "Do you... mind?"

"Not if you don't." Always too agreeable. Fine. This is fine. "And you?" Marianne asks her.

"What about your mother?" Tom asks her also.

"We haven't been in touch for a while."

He looks surprised. Marianne just looks.

"I'll buy a ticket."

"Guest list," Marianne reminds her. "We'll smuggle you in. Like a heist movie. We're not -" she corrects quickly in Tom's direction - "We're not doing a heist. Honest."

"I should hope not. You are, after all, federal agents."

"That's what it says on the badge," Marianne agrees. It makes Tom laugh.

Héloïse puts a stop to this. "Fine. Marianne and I will make that plan. Tom, you'll take Marianne as your plus one. She will meet you at the hotel at eight."

* * *

Back in the office and Héloïse's headache is only just beginning. "So. Black tie. Do you have anything approaching formalwear?"

"Approaching," Marianne concedes carefully. "From very far away. I have cleanwear."

"Do you own an iron?"

"I do not."

As suspected. "I will get you something."

The laid back joking Marianne evaporates in an instant. "No, you don't have to do that. I'll find something, I promise." Makes Héloïse's offer of help sound like a threat. Heads out of the office early on this "side quest" to find suitable attire while Héloïse trawls through newspaper clippings looking for the elusive QQ Labs.

Héloïse trusts Marianne more than anyone but this trust does not extend - not for one second - to believing she will not traipse along in overalls. Or worse. Though she is still thinking about what could be worse right up until she steps out of the taxi at the hotel.

* * *

Marianne waits in the lobby. it can only be described as lavish and a good part of her is ready to be asked to leave. No sign of Héloïse this evening. There was some level of subterfuge in the plan that demanded they arrive separately - it was Héloïse's plan, really. Unnecessarily complicated as an overreaction to something Marianne was pretty sure she understood.

Who arrives now. Nice shoes. Nice coat. Nice tuxedo. "Good evening," he says.

"I wish I could wear a tuxedo."

It catches him for a moment but he rolls with it. "Why can't you?"

"Well, I _can_. I have. But not here, now. Though I seriously considered it. You don't think a woman wearing a tuxedo to something like this would stick out?"

He laughs. "Yes. Unfortunately."

"Which I don't think Héloïse would appreciate. She's got this whole big plan going on." She's not sure whether she ought to even mention Héloïse's name - whether he will mind. Whether she would.

They join the queue for the cloakroom. Of course Marianne feels as though she sticks out enough. The veneer of a nice dress isn't enough to paper the cracks. She doesn't know what she is doing here. But most of these people don't. Always looking over their shoulder. Even if they act like they belong with the arrogance and the attitude... scratch a bit further and they are probably just scared too.

"I hope Héloïse is okay," she says. Looks at the watch she isn't wearing.

They take their tickets from the cloakroom and go to the elevator. There's a guy in there whose sole job seems to be pushing buttons and if Marianne had known this was a real job she might actually have left the FBI. Uniform a bit offputting though. Reminded of which she tugs at her dress. Hopes it passes muster with Héloïse. Thinks about Héloïse casting a critical eye over her. Cannot think about Héloïse's eyes on her.

* * *

Héloïse shivers on the fire escape. She'd slipped out of the restaurant a few floors below but it is a bit windy all the way up here and she is concerned about her hair. In truth, her hair is the least of her concerns but it is the only legitimate one that she can articulate even to herself. The dress is not suited to mounting even a few flights of stairs. She has plenty of cocktail dresses but this turned out to be the only one that obscured her chest - her shoulder, more importantly - with a sufficient amount of vintage laciness. The compromise was in the length. Finally the door opens.

"Got lost looking for the bathroom," comes Marianne's voice, loudly, to no one in particular.

Héloïse slides in. Bright. Warm. Immediately puts her hands to her hair.

"Wow," Marianne smiles. "Look at you."

Which Héloïse can't appreciate fully because... well. "You look..."

"Don't." Marianne has a warning tone. "I tried my hardest, honestly I did."

"No, you look... good. Really. Really good."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks."

Black and accentuated in the shoulders. Long sleeves. Further down: "Legs."

"I do. I do have legs."

Héloïse recovers herself by looking away. Down the corridor toward the ballroom. "Are you ready for this?"

"Almost certainly not," Marianne answers.

They proceed anyway. In the ballroom Héloïse surveys the scene. She can't see Tom: good. People move fluidly around. They are mingling and 'working the room' so discreet enquiries ought to go unnoticed: also good. She begins to have some confidence. "We should split up. Canvas attendees." The plan.

"Yes." Marianne says. She does not move. Nor does Héloïse. "Shall I get you a drink?" Marianne asks suddenly.

"A mojito," Héloïse replies, just as unexpectedly. "Non-alcoholic, obviously."

"Of course. On duty." And Marianne walks away. And Héloïse watches.

* * *

Once Marianne makes it to the front of the crowd around the bar a waiter rather than any of the bar staff comes over. "Someone wants to see you in the kitchen."

Marianne follows and is not even slightly surprised by who she finds.

Looking regal almost. Holding her court here in the bustling kitchen. Letting it move around her as a show of her utter implacability. Scrutinises Marianne and just ever so slightly tips her head back over her shoulder before turning and sweeping through a fire escape. Out on the metal staircase she lights a cigarette. It flickers only as far as the handrail. They are very high up. The car lights crawl below.

Drag. Exhale. "You're playing with fire."

"Literally. And I suppose you're here to tell me to stop?"

"Your job is to investigate the unexplained. Fight the monsters that hide under the beds of the nation. You found your monster, Marianne."

"They weren't the monsters."

"You found your monster." The voice is soft but demands obedience. Marianne has never been very good with obedience.

"If you object to everything I'm doing why didn't you let them close me down?"

"Would that stop you?"

Marianne grins. Evidence of some understanding. "No." Still begs the question, why. So many options. "If you told me what you wanted, just said it in a non-cryptic manner, I might be able to help or at least tell you if you are wasting your time. Or I'll get Héloïse over and she'll give you a stern talking to."

"You haven't told Agent Scully about our meetings."

It's not a question, so Marianne doesn't reply. Just thinks about how she hasn't and maybe why she hasn't.

The thoughtful mood seems to be catching. This cigarette smoking lady, this queen of some mysterious bureaucratic kingdom, minor aristocracy at least, pauses and there's just the slightest twitch of an unspoken comment in her sideways gaze, an impatience to the hands. "Tell me, Agent Scully, does she seem," and there is a pause, looking for the right word. "Happy?" Which is not the word Marianne was expecting at all.

It's not a question Marianne can answer.

* * *

It seems to take Marianne an age to return with the drinks. Héloïse supposes she is not very assertive.

Héloïse also supposes that even though she is standing here just chatting to Marianne she is enacting some level of the plan. Even on their second drink. Keeping an eye on comings and goings. Being discreet, they are being discreet. Watching and waiting.

"I keep expecting my mother to walk in. This is just her sort of scene."

Piano tinkling. Unchallenging. Shaking cocktails. The high pitched laughter of a woman, probably head tipped back and a hand on an arm. Pearls, somewhere. It is the sound of money.

"My mother is a force of nature. A big shot in banking."

Marianne nods. Tom had hinted at something like it the other day. Possibly Marianne already knew. Had already pieced it together.

Here is something that it is highly unlikely Marianne has pieced together: "I never knew my father. One night thing." Might as well get all that out in the open.

Marianne listens.

There's another story to tell. That looms large. Except Héloïse can't talk about Tom without talking about all the other things that happened then and before and maybe ever. Which is a conversation twenty-seven years in the making. Even though she has no doubt Marianne would listen.

The unfamiliarity of the situation pushes them closer together. It doesn't feel real. So removed from their real life of endless car journeys and airport departure lounges and takeouts at far-flung police stations and anonymous motels. The backdrop of mayhem and chaos. Day after drizzling day of Marianne where they talk for hours and never talk about anything like this.

"I need you to understand." Without being able to say too much of why she needs Marianne to understand. Why she needs Marianne to know.

"I do. I understand."

And Héloïse believes it. "We met working a case. Different departments, as you know. He didn't make a move until it closed. All very professional. It happened quickly. My mother was thrilled. She had begun to think - well, correct things, as it turned out. And I broke it off. There. That's the story." The very skeletal remains of the story. "Poor man. I'm sure he has plenty of regrets. I can't imagine what possessed him in the first place."

"That's not a part of the story I have any difficulty with."

Héloïse pushes it away with a sharp exhalation of a laugh.

"We should probably do the thing," Marianne says. "The plan."

"We probably should."

"Clockwise," Marianne points at Héloïse. "Anti-clockwise," at herself.

"Always swimming against the tide."

"You know it." The smile does nothing to prompt Héloïse into action. It's Marianne that moves away.

To circle the room, float in and out of these conversations. People are accomodating of new arrivals. They are here to see and be seen. Héloïse doesn't even feel bad about it. Feels just as fake as they are. It fits.

For a while there is not much room between her and Marianne so that Héloïse catches fragments of conversation. Marianne's voice a tone she has never heard before. Laughing about... two-tier tenders?

Because of course Marianne can do this effortlessly. Marianne knows how people form their views on the world. Can read a person in a second. Is an excellent though forgiving judge of character. Presents herself exactly as she wishes to be perceived.

For her part, Héloïse follows a trail of names through conversations. Trying to piece together the real powers in the room. She knows enough from her mother not to look in the obvious places. The shiny CEOs. Behind them.

Over on the other side of the room - because she has never really stopped watching - Marianne is taking someone's arm and being escorted to the dance floor. Héloïse surveys this display with deep dissatisfaction. Drops entirely out of the conversation going on around her.

She knows, now, what it is to be in Marianne's arms. Her skin smoulders with the memory of it. The warmth spreads across her back.

Marianne looks up over her partner's shoulder. Straight at Héloïse. It sucks all the oxygen out of the room. Into Héloïse's gut where embers roar into life.

* * *

Héloïse has disappeared. Marianne had been keeping track but got a bit turned around. Surprisingly easy to have a conversation while waltzing. Unsurprisingly difficult to keep tabs on someone.

Normally the whole "And what do you do?" conversation kills a little part of Marianne's soul. Partly because it's so difficult to answer. The "I work for the FBI" reply makes her sound like a very different person than she feels like she is. The reality being more along the lines of "I spend a shocking amount of time covered in various types of excrement, also running." This is unlikely to go down well on dates.

Tonight however she has been an airline pilot, a tree surgeon, a big shot in banking, all sorts. Most of the people she has talked to have been more along the 'big shot in banking' lines. Or liked to think they were at least.

This last guy worked at an up-and-coming research lab. "Fascinating," Marianne purred and let him lead her out onto the dancefloor. Something about the twirling, the blur of the backdrop, gently hypnotic, helped with her probing.

She deposited him on an ornate couch and put a glass of punch in his hand. Aftercare, of a sort. Now she needs to find Héloïse.

* * *

Having made a speedy exit, Héloïse finds herself amongst potted palms in a quieter, cooler room. It turns out she has been pursued. He sits down next to her. "Tom, I'm not in the mood right now."

"Not even for an apology?"

Too tempting. "Proceed."

"I came on too strong last week and I'm sorry. You're right that I didn't understand. Shouldn't have gone barrelling in."

"You do that."

"I know. I realised that. After... you know."

"It was a shitty situation." An understatement.

"I didn't make it any easier. Then or last week. I am sorry about Val. I know how important she was to you."

It's not as awful to remember, to hear her name, as Héloïse had thought it would be. "I looked up to her. She was the big sister I never had."

"And now Marianne is what, your little sister?"

Héloïse coughs, the air turned too hard in her throat. "Marianne's older than me." Barely. That wasn't the point. An entirely different entity.

"Well, she's clearly very fond of you."

Now Héloïse has to hold her breath. "Is she?"

"She is. I'm glad. I'm sorry about what I said. About her. I think she's great. And about you. I think you're pretty great too."

"Thank you. You're not so bad yourself."

"Oh, high praise!" He laughs, leans back in his seat.

A moment of lightness disturbed by the crash of a door being thrown back. "We have to go!" It is, of course, Marianne hurtling past.

Héloïse and Tom look at one another and follow.

* * *

Tom drives. Marianne is on the phone - Héloïse's phone - to Sophie on standby in the office. Marianne has a street name based on something a guy had said about where he got lunch. Once upon a time, all of a few weeks ago, Héloïse would have laughed. Now it makes complete sense. A car full of cocktail dresses looking for a building owned by a shell corporation, any shell corporation will do, within walking distance of a sandwich shop.

Sophie relays an address, Marianne relays it to Tom, and they all pile out.

Marianne produces a little roll of lockpicking tools from somewhere Héloïse cannot bear to think about and sets about the door. They leave Tom on guard and Héloïse produces a flashlight from the very appropriate place of her purse.

Into the lobby where there's the faint sunburned outline of a company name. Wires sticking out of the reception desk. Marianne picks up an envelope off the floor. "QQ Labs. There we go."

"Hang onto that. Actually, let me put it in my purse."

Passing along a corridor. Offices. The elevator stands still, doors open. They take the stairs carefully, Héloïse pointing the beam down. Marianne's feet are bare.

Downstairs the floor is tiled and the corridor branches. To one side: huge rooms, windowed walls, well-ventilated. Labs. Empty labs. To the other side: small rooms. Also empty. Peering in through each door, a quick sweep of the light. Catching on the sooty corner.

"In case we were in any doubt," Marianne says. Swipes it with her finger.

Héloïse throws up her hands in surrender. "But they've gone."

Now plunged into darkness in the room comes Marianne's voice. "Something went wrong and they skipped town. It's okay." She appears in the doorway.

"Is it?"

"It will be." And, like every other time, Héloïse believes her.

* * *

Tom takes his leave after offering them a lift back to the Bureau. "If you need anything you know where I am."

"Thank you."

They watch him walking back to his car.

"I like him," Marianne says.

Héloïse walks a little way down the street. "You like everyone."

Marianne trails after her. "That's not true."

"It's true enough." Looks up and down. Hails a cab. "Will you be all right tonight?"

It hits its mark. Makes her smile. Right into her eyes. "Yes, thank you. I wish we could have done more. But I'm glad we got as far as we did. Maybe made a little difference."

"Good. Because if you hadn't been all right, I don't know, I might have had to see if you wanted to come back to mine and get takeout and I just bought some more peanut butter. So that's just as well, that you'll be all right." She shrugs, smiles a little herself.

"I could be _more_ all right."

"Come on then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom Braidwood is the pseudonym Mulder uses in _E.B.E._ (The X-Files, s1 e17). The robot cockroaches case refers to _War of the Coprophages_ (s3 e12).


	11. Mythtaken

Dust puffs up from the dry earth as a hole is hastily dug. A wide-eyed, sweating man in robes looks worriedly around as he clutches a terracotta pot, decorated with black paint. Monsters and mythical creatures jostle across its surface.

When the hole is complete the urn is thrown in, smashing into three pieces. Hit again with the shovel so that it shatters further. The hole is filled in.

**2743 years later...**

The same vase decorates a banner hanging outside the museum. Underneath it, Héloïse and Marianne pass into the exhibit.

* * *

**December 4, 1993**  
**Washington, DC**

Héloïse buys an overpriced brochure. She flicks through it while they queue.

"Can we get falafel after?" Marianne bounces on her toes, cranes to see over the crowd.

"You just had pizza," Héloïse replies, still reading.

"Only one slice."

"It was half a pizza." Just a little incredulity creeping in now.

"Sliced once."

"Semantics."

"Facts."

Héloïse ignores her until, "Oh," Marianne says, stops, looks at nothing in particular.

"What?"

"I recognise the - the wall."

"You've been here before though."

"Yes. But this was - it was just a dream." Marianne waves it off.

Héloïse reads to her from the brochure. How the urn - properly _krater_ \- was found a few years ago, pieced together, greatest example of its subject matter, all that. "You'll stop me if you know this?"

"Never," Marianne says happily. "Anyway, everything I know about Ancient Greece I learned from Clash of the Titans." She's joking. Almost certainly joking.

Here are the supporting pieces, the lesser examples cruelly sidelined. Shuffle, read, pause. Repeat.

"I love museums. It's like walking through a book. That's not a complaint. Just an observation."

Héloïse pauses to read the display. "Granted."

There is concern in her glance over at Marianne but then relief at Marianne's evident interest. She's enthusiastic and interested. She's always enthusiastic and interested about everything.

"I just find it hard to comprehend. Someone made that. A person. Two and a half thousand years ago." The awe shines in Marianne's eyes. Héloïse had fought every instinct in inviting her but now she can't imagine not.

The line shuffles onward. The main event: the large urn decorated with all manner of mythical creatures.

"Very cool," Marianne says appreciatively.

"It really is." Watching Marianne taking it in.

Remembers to have a look herself. Detailed and dynamic and - wait.

Héloïse frowns and looks closer. "Are they -" she almost can't say it but if there are strange things to say they might as well be said in Marianne's company - "moving?"

As Marianne leans in for a better look Héloïse shakes her head. It can't be.

The urn - _krater_ \- starts to shake in its case.

"Huh," Marianne says.

Other people shriek and start to move away as the rattling increases. Nothing else moves. It's not an earthquake, it's very specifically that display. Héloïse pulls Marianne back just as the glass explodes outward.

The crashing brings on more screams and a strange noise of creaking suction. First Héloïse looks to Marianne, who is staring over Héloïse's shoulder, unharmed. "Oh wow," she says.

Looking back at the urn the black paint seems to be pouring off it, the shapes twisting and expanding.

"Everybody out," Héloïse declares. No such thing as off-duty even on a Saturday afternoon.

Some of the blackness pools on the floor and starts to take shape. More balloons off the urn. Another display is smashed in the expansion. Parts extend up to the ceiling. Out of the inky clouds steps - no. "This is a dream," Héloïse says, confident now. Marianne - Marianne as provided by her subconscious - had already said it, given a hint.

"No, I don't think so," Marianne says. "That's definitely a giant." She is helping an older woman from the gallery.

Security guards appear. Héloïse doesn't know what to tell them. She flashes her badge, though what this achieves is unclear. She turns again and watches horses appear. Birds fly, the hulking shape of a cow. More glass smashes, knocked by a lion. "Out," Héloïse repeats.

"But the exhibits!" a guard gasps, unable to take his eyes from the scene.

Marianne is ushering more people from the door and the room is empty now. Aside from the lion and the horses and the enormous cow and the thing that cannot possibly be a giant but is certainly very giant that all rampage through glass and pottery, snorting and snarling and striding. The other guard is very sensibly urging evacuation into his radio.

Everyone backs out the door. "Lock it," Héloïse instructs.

A very sedate alarm, beeping gently and calmly urging visitors to leave, begins. As does the thumping on the door.

* * *

Héloïse is on the phone to the police. Trying to keep an eye on Marianne who is moving purposefully around the lobby, talking with security and what appears to be some very confused museum managers, checking on the handful of patrons who are still being cleared. Encouraging people along as they all beat a hasty retreat.

Marianne's hand is on Héloïse's elbow as they descend the steps. Then she's gone again, trying to move the crowds away. Héloïse tries to keep her attention on her phone call but the crashing coming from the inside of the museum is distracting, as is keeping track of Marianne.

The rumbling of falling brick heralds the appearance of the figure that seems to pass directly through the face of the building. Walls no impediment, simply swinging its arms. It's at least three storeys tall. Long limbs, long face, one eye in the centre.

"No," Héloïse says, limply, the cell phone sliding from her ear.

Birds that are not birds escape from behind it. Birds with the faces of women. Also in the air: a bird in the head and the wings, the body of a large cat. A lion-sized cat.

Marianne is back by Héloïse's side. "I can't -" Héloïse fails to explain to the police dispatcher. "We've got... wild animals?" She makes a desperate appeal to Marianne with her eyes.

Who shrugs. "Close enough."

"And a thirty-foot man." Who is looking around with a low mumbling.

Héloïse realises she is walking backward. Marianne's hand on her arm again. Guiding. Supporting.

The giant begins to walk off down the street to the right and Héloïse relays this information. Also relays the information that several green and naked women, goats, horses - not horses - horses with riders - horses that have - no - it's not possible, a bull, what could only be described as a dragon no matter how her brain protests, plus a few snakes were all escaping into the city from the museum.

Marianne, mysteriously and suddenly in possession of an umbrella, is prodding at a snake and has a goat under one arm. "We need somewhere to put them!" she calls over.

"Containment," Héloïse says into the phone. "Just... bring everything you've got." Finally hangs up.

Crowds stream from the place, the creatures getting mixed up in them,

Marianne heaves the goat back into the lobby where, now the biggest animals have already departed, the guards are trying to corral some of the smaller, less motivated ones that are just wandering about. Except the goats are stood on their back legs and Héloïse finds this deeply disturbing.

"We need to follow them, keep track of them," Marianne says as she scoops up another goat. Which harangues her, beats at her with small fists. Because this goat is only half a goat.

Héloïse feels a physical pain. "Marianne," she says as calmly as she can. "That goat..."

"A satyr," Marianne corrects, much as Héloïse was hoping she would not. "Careful of that snake."

Sidestepping the snake is the easy part.

Marianne wrangles the goat until she has it under the arms and then deposits it back into the museum with its friends. Héloïse looks over the barrier that has been constructed. They stand together, these upright goats, with their human arms and faces, speaking to each other, chattering in an unintelligible language. In the time Héloïse watches them Marianne has collected another and hooked a snake.

There are sirens but looking around there is little to do here now. The progress of the giant is well-marked by screams and destruction. There are too many escapees, all headed off in different directions.

What Héloïse really needs is a coffee. "We can't follow them all."

"No, you're right." Marianne responds as though Héloïse were making a well-considered point, rather than just grasping at straws. "Find the root. We need to get back to the exhibition."

* * *

Héloïse is unhappy about this plan but Marianne is already levering herself over the barrier and Héloïse is following. They dodge the snakes and the goats that Héloïse cannot look at. Something is fluttering around the ceiling and Héloïse does not really want to look at that either. Her thumb is hooked around the harness of her gun though.

There's a shadowy presence of a large animal in the next room and they skirt the wall carefully. Back to the exhibition where the door lies broken on the floor. Crunching over broken glass and splintered wood they pass into the darkened gallery.

So alert is she that she almost shoots herself in the foot when something grabs hold of her leg.

"Shit," she says instead, trying to shake it off.

Marianne dives, grabs, wrestles the thing though it claws at Héloïse's leg. Héloïse hops around while Marianne, sat on the floor, restrains it. Another goat.

"No," Marianne tells the goat sternly. Holding it at arm's length as it tries to bite her. "Please stop." It wriggles, yelling.

Héloïse needs them both to stop. She helps Marianne to her feet, with a demented goat-thing tucked under one arm.

Flashlight out, following the path of the exhibit as much as it is still clear. Shards of pottery on the floor too. The insurance claim is going to be monstrous. Héloïse laughs. Hysteria kicking in. Distracts herself with the etymology.

Something bat-like flaps about. Large. A large bat. Héloïse can't quite catch sight of it. And Marianne is not looking, she is holding the goat-creature, trying to instigate a conversation.

"What's your name?" Marianne points at herself. "Marianne. My name's Marianne."

So, befriending monsters now. That's where they are.

"I wish I spoke Ancient Greek" Marianne laments. "We need a translator." Héloïse is about to start on why a stuffy academic is the last thing they need when Marianne adds, "You don't, do you?" Gives her an exhausted, perturbed look in return. The confidence in Héloïse's abilities is as vexing as it is flattering. "If you feel the urge just roll with it," Marianne says.

"What?"

"To start speaking it."

Héloïse ignores this. Ignores the goat-person now perched on Marianne's shoulders, chattering still.

They turn the corner - Héloïse tries to do a sweep, gun ready, but Marianne just wanders blithely round.

The urn itself, nakedly terracotta, is, however improbably, still standing on its plinth though the protective glass case is entirely missing. Around the base curious creatures struggle.

"Mer... goats?" Marianne says. It seems a close enough description given the flapping tails at one end and the hooves and horns at the other. They sprawl on the floor, some trying to drag themselves on their front legs but mostly just flopping around. "That's really sad. They breathe air though, right?"

Yet again, as though Héloïse knew anything about such things. "Mammalian lungs," Héloïse diagnoses. Knows more than she realised. Some PT Barnum Feegee mermaid nonsense that someone has cruelly cooked up. Or so a good part of her is desperate to believe.

Marianne's goat is laughing. Marianne herself rights one of them, turns it onto its stomach, and looks around, presumably for somewhere to put them.

Héloïse does the same, though she uses her foot to flip it over.

They approach the urn.

"I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies that _she_ didn't pop off," Marianne says, angling the vase to show the Medusa. The only figure still attached. "Though I wonder why. I wonder if -"

"Small mercies," Héloïse agrees. Small mercies are best left as they are. "Wait, where are you going with that?" because Marianne is lifting the urn down.

"We need to put these things back on it."

"Just... put them back?"

"Don't you think?"

Héloïse cannot think. Marianne is too many steps ahead already. Testing her theory she puts the urn on the floor and places a wriggling seagoat inside. Nothing happens, there is simply an angry goat-fish-hybrid inside a priceless ancient relic. Possibly easier to put a price on now it is missing its residents. Almost all of them anyway. Héloïse leans in to look at the Medusa. For a moment she thinks it peers back.

Now Marianne pulls a Sharpie from some pocket.

"Marianne, no."

"I thought maybe if I draw it on. I'm no good at drawing though."

Héloïse is going to stand here and watch this vandalism. Marianne does her best but she is correct: she cannot draw. The vaguely stick-figure mergoat achieves nothing. "Darn," Marianne says. "Okay, we'll figure it out." She heaves up the urn, it's so large her hands can't meet around it. Héloïse would be concerned she's going to get sucked into it except that's not a real thing. Someone swapped it out, put this blank one there... but the rationale is too much for her. Best just to not think about it.

* * *

By the time they make it back to the front of the building there is much more organised activity.

"Agents," the Assistant Director says. His eyes note Marianne's passenger and the urn but clearly he has bigger concerns as he pointedly ignores them. "You got here quickly."

"We were -" Already here because it turns out that on the rare weekends we're not on a case I can't go even two days without her. No. Best not. "At the exhibition anyway."

"Which explains Agent Mulder's less than professional dress code," he says, loudly, so she can hear.

"Just because Héloïse always dresses like she's at work," Marianne shoots back. In her denim overalls and holey woolly sweater. Nice coat though. Warm.

Versus Héloïse's... well, yes. More or less what she wears to the office. "I do not." Anyway.

Héloïse gives the best debrief she can. It is not very good but it is all she can muster. Stumbling over the appropriate nomenclature.

"But what _are_ they? That I can..." The AD suffers. "Tell people?"

"Mythological creatures off the urn," Marianne says helpfully, as though the truth is what is required right now. The truth?

"It's..." Héloïse looks at Marianne, the creature on her shoulder. Last night, on her couch. Gremlins. "A movie? Special effects."

"Yes!" He exhales. "Of course."

"Though we are going to need to wrangle the... special effects, sir."

"Discreetly."

Discreetly capture a thirty-foot one-eyed man making his way through downtown DC.

"There's one of those fire-breathing mechanical bulls still in there," Marianne adds while feeding crackers to her goat. "Probably going to need the fire department."

The Assistant Director goes to speak to the police.

Marianne has begun an impromptu picnic. "Héloïse, would you like a cracker?"

Héloïse seriously considers it. "You've not got any cheese in there too, have you?"

"No, sorry. What cheese do you like? I'll get some."

The goat mows through the crackers. Holds its - its hands out for more. Excessively hairy hands but hands nonetheless. Bigger tufts of hair on the elbows. Devilish yellow eyes. Bushy eyebrows. Horns.

Héloïse tears her eyes from the creature. Takes a cracker from the proffered packet. Just for something to focus on.

"How are you holding up?" Marianne asks softly.

"I can't."

"Okay. I'm here. When you can. Or can't not, any more. You know what I mean."

* * *

What Héloïse needs is to sort this mess out. Just two blocks over the first attempt is in action.

The park has been cleared and crowds throng the entrance. Police vans are parked nearby. Héloïse ploughs through, brandishing her badge. Stares down the police officers who attempt to bar her way.

"We're waiting for someone to come move _them_." Gestures over his shoulder. 

"Us." Héloïse shrivels him. "You're waiting for us."

So they are allowed through.

The clashing of steel as two pairs of the centaurs spar with one another. There's no way round it. They are indisputably centaurs. Human perched precariously on horse. The proportion of horse to human. Not entirely separate. Not a costume. There are long ears, a mane running down the back. Héloïse really wants to get one under an x-ray.

She and Marianne huddle behind a bench. The satyr, which has for some reason accompanied them, points and speaks excitedly. Two more centaurs scrape about, digging at the grass, scratching and stretching. Héloïse consults the brochure. Six on the urn. All present and correct.

Marianne is watching too. "Gosh, centaurs are very cool. I think I'd make a good centaur." Which is a concept Héloïse cannot even begin to grapple with any aspect of.

"How do we... what's the plan?"

"Couldn't have been little Shetland pony centaurs, I suppose that's too much to ask. Those swords look very pointy."

That is more or less Héloïse's concern. Wielded by very well muscled individuals that stand nearly nine feet tall, both bodies taken into account.

"Do you have a lasso in there?" Indicates Marianne's backpack.

"You know what, I don't. Frying pan, kite, mirror... No lasso. I'll get one. Though I imagine in the time it might take either of us to lasso a centaur the rest would have become stabby."

It's not the time for this sort of silliness. "Planning on encountering many more centaurs?" she asks nonetheless.

"Calf, maybe. An errant cowboy. One can never be too careful."

"True enough." Plan. "Nets? The police might have nets."

"People will get hurt. _They_ will get hurt. Less stick. More carrot."

"You've got carrots in there?"

"Better." Immediately Marianne goes striding out.

Héloïse’s hand grasping at thin air. Scrambling to follow.

The swords fall silent. There's a whinnying, a snorting.

Marianne holds out her hand. "Mint?"

Behind her, Héloïse takes hold of Marianne by the rucksack as the fearsome centaurs crowd round. They get their prize. They would follow Marianne anywhere, now. Into the police vans, for another mint.

* * *

"Next?"

Héloïse looks at the hasty map pulled together at the museum, functioning as a sort of control centre. The giant is heading down Pennsylvania Avenue. Doing a little sightseeing. A giant boar was tranquilised. There's some trouble down at the National Mall, reports are a little unclear.

"National Mall."

* * *

The problem isn't at the Lincoln Memorial as such though that is where the crowd has formed. In fact, Héloïse can see as she stands on the steps and looks out, the problem is in the pool. Marianne hands her a pair of binoculars. A makeshift nest has been built and some large birds sit there, surrounded by police and other bystanders up to their waists in water. But these people, out there in the pool, don't appear to be doing anything.

"What happened?" Héloïse asks a police officer, who appears to have even less of a clue than she does.

"We just got here. The last lot is, well, out there."

Héloïse trains the binoculars back on the pool. One of the birds spreads its wings and Héloïse sees, can see, would really rather not be seeing, the body of a woman between those wings. Especially when the other birds - women - do the same. And start to sing.

It's fine, Héloïse realises with relief. Birdsong haunting and melodious but no more than that.

She turns to Marianne. "It's not -" but Marianne has a faraway look on her face. The satyr squeaks and scrambles from Marianne's bag, huddles behind her legs.

Everyone in the crowd, police included, fall silent. Pivot around to look at the Sirens. Like the group already in the pool. Blank and brainwashed. People start to move, walking down the steps.

Marianne takes a step forward.

"Oh for heaven's sake. Marianne, concentrate." The admonishment fails to make a dent.

"Can't you hear it?" whispers Marianne, some sort of awestruck.

"Yes." Hears it but it stirs nothing in her.

Everyone moving now. People stepping into the water. Héloïse keeps pace with Marianne as she walks down the steps. "Marianne, come on now. You know what this is." Are there Sirens in Clash of the Titans? Héloïse does not know.

There's no response. Marianne's attention is trained on the pool.

Héloïse moves around her. "We should go to the movies, tonight. What do you want to see?"

No response.

Puts herself in front of Marianne as they get to the poolside. Other people splashing in around them. Takes hold of the bag straps, tries to push against the incessant progress. Marianne bumps up against her, tries to dodge, all the while looking vacantly over Héloïse's shoulder.

"They just made my favourite book into a movie," Héloïse says desperately. "You'd hate it. Very slow, very sedate, lots of talking and silences and serious looks. If you don't stop I'll make you watch it."

Nothing. Marianne slides around her, steps into the pool. Water just above the knees. It's not dangerous but it's not exactly pleasant. About fifty other people are doing the same, shuffling mindlessly towards the centre. At least they aren't trying to take a bite out of her, Héloïse reflects. Though goodness knows what might start. Sirens lured people to drowning.

Thus motivated Héloïse puts her hands on Marianne's shoulders, walking backward. Sloshing in the water, trying not to slip. Balancing herself as much as any attempt to slow Marianne who wades onward. Héloïse assesses her chances at physical restraint. Lash Marianne to the mast. But there's no lasso.

To break a spell... To lift a curse... Instead Héloïse tightens her grip. "Look at me," she demands.

Marianne does. Her eyes drift idly in Héloïse's direction at least. Summoning everything she has, Héloïse says, "Stop." Marianne does. A few other people around them falter but then recover themselves after a moment. Marianne is still.

The singing continues. It's not Marianne's usual style, pops into Héloïse's mind unhelpfully.

Except... Spinning Marianne around, unzipping her bag. Rummaging about - no wonder Marianne could never find anything. Here, here. Walkman. Hits play, can hear the roaring and shoves the headset over Marianne's ears.

She comes back around in front of Marianne. Eyes less glazed over, starting to focus. And there she is. Frowning and moving her hands to take off the Walkman. Héloïse shakes her head quickly, puts her hands over the headset. Nods her head back to solid ground and Marianne looks down as though she's only just noticing she's in the water.

Most people have passed now, streamed around them. Marianne helps Héloïse out the pool onto the path and looks back at the gathering crowd. She doesn't move that way though. Héloïse holds out her hand and Marianne takes it, staggering from the pool, both dripping wet, Héloïse steering Marianne away until they are out of earshot. Reaches up and removes the headset carefully.

"How do you feel?"

"Kind of cold," Marianne admits.

"Yes."

"Kind of embarrassed. Thank you. Sorry."

"As long as you're okay." She still has her hand on Marianne's elbow. Marianne still has hold of hers too. So that Héloïse doesn't want to move, can't move.

"The others," Marianne says.

Must move.

Héloïse gets on the phone. "We need your biggest sound system."

* * *

Rounding up the creatures is only half the job, it is soon realised. There's only so long a dance party can be held on the Mall or snakes and satyrs can inhabit the museum.

"The sea goats could go to the zoo but I think they'll scare the penguins. I love the penguins," Marianne says.

"I'm sure you do."

"But if they got _off_ the urn, in theory, I would think we could get them back on."

This is where Héloïse starts to get a headache again. She fetches a cup of coffee.

When she returns to her seat Marianne is looking at her curiously. "It's a drinking urn, right? A big punch bowl. So maybe we drink from it? Not us. I don't want to be trapped on a Grecian urn. Them."

So Marianne disappears off to procure a bottle of wine and returns with a satyr in tow, presumably her friend. She pours the wine into the urn. It barely covers a few inches of the bottom. Marianne dips a mug in, hands it to the satyr. Who drinks happily and holds the mug out for more.

"Hm," Marianne says. "New plan."

* * *

There are several new plans. The bemused satyr is placed inside the urn, for a start. Splashes about. Héloïse goes for another coffee. When she gets back Marianne is holding a one-sided discussion with the Medusa, still the only resident on the urn itself.

"Well?" Héloïse asks.

"We are thinking."

Héloïse watches museum staff bringing trays upon trays of shattered artefacts out.

"Oh!" Marianne says brightly. "An ostracism."

"The broken pottery," Héloïse picks up.

"Like an exorcism but for Ancient Greek politics."

It seems as implausible an idea as any other.

* * *

Héloïse negotiates for some of the pottery pieces and when this fails she sinks to purloining a tray which she presents to Marianne with some pride.

Marianne has her Sharpie out and Héloïse moves her seat to block the view of Marianne and the urn and the priceless relics.

"I hope I don't have to put their given names." She starts with the Sirens, sensibly, etching the name on the piece of pottery. Looks at Héloïse hopefully and drops it into the pot.

Nothing happens.

Marianne deflates down in the chair. "I was so sure. Wait. Héloïse, you do it."

What? "What?"

"You try."

"Why does it matter if I do it?"

Marianne simply puts the shards and the Sharpie in front of her. Héloïse sighs. Writes 'the Sirens' and tosses the piece in. Looks at Marianne in an 'I told you so' manner.

A pre-emptive 'I told you so.' The face of the urn grows smokey and one by one figures appear. The Sirens sitting atop their cliff.

There's no 'I told you so' from Marianne. Just an expression of excitement and wonder. "Héloïse..." she murmurs.

There's no excitement and wonder from Héloïse. "Why did that work?"

"Try another."

She does. The cyclops, the giant boar, the chimera, the bull, the Griffin. Marianne tries another, the centaurs, but again nothing happens. So Héloïse does them. The mergoats, the dryads, the harpies. Pauses on satyrs so Marianne can say, "Bye buddy," and scratch behind its ears.

Then they are all done. Marianne consults the brochure again. Héloïse can do nothing. "Yep, all there. Well done." The face of the urn looks just as it did. Creatures laid flat and still.

But what had she done?

"So," Marianne says, heaving the urn up off the floor, "I guess I'll just..." and Héloïse knows, because she is watching. Sees Marianne very deliberately let go and stand impassively as it smashes into pieces around her feet. "Whoops," she shrugs.

Héloïse can't blame her.

* * *

Héloïse doesn't say a word as the museum staff bemoan the loss of yet another artefact, as the Assistant Director and supervising police officer explain to them what actually happened, as the makeshift camp is taken down. Someone comes to take Héloïse's chair away and she just looks at them so that they very sensibly back off.

"All done," Marianne says, coming to crouch by Héloïse. A hand on the arm of the chair. "Time to go home."

"There has to be," Héloïse begins, voice straining, "a rational explanation for this."

Marianne looks up at her. Hugs her own knees. "There is. There is a rational explanation: that this stuff is real."

"It can't be real. I can't. I can't believe it."

"Everything you've seen. Everything you've done."

She gives Marianne a sharp look.

"I know it's hard," Marianne continues. "It's easier on the other side, honestly." Spreads her arms. "Look at me."

"I'm not like you." Three months ago she would have said that with pride. Now it is more regret.

"Let me take you home," Marianne says so gently that Héloïse aches with it.

"Actually, you owe me a film."

And Marianne smiles. "I'd love to. Plus we've still not had falafel." Picks herself up and offers her hand.

Héloïse takes it. Allows herself to be hauled from the chair. Walks down the street with Marianne. Thinks maybe everything might actually be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is taken from arguably the best _Buffy_ joke ever: "We thought the Slayer was a myth." "Well, you were mythtaken." (Runner up, "Don't speak Latin in front of the books" which almost got its own chapter, but alas not.) 
> 
> Everything I know about Ancient Greece I learned from _Xena_. The kite, frying pan, mirror is also _Xena_ and there will be more of that later. No mythological creatures were harmed in the making of this motion picture though the centaurs were quite embarrassed.


	12. One and a Half Billion to One

Beams from flashlights skirt over the walls of a darkened office. Computer equipment is hastily plundered.

A man in a lab coat is in the hall, taken by surprise. "What are you -" he starts to say, until the gun is pulled. "No. No, please!"

A shot sounds out, reverberating from the building into the woods outside. Scattering crows into the night.

* * *

Héloïse sails in the door of the office with her coffee. "So, what delights await us today?"

"Bit of a weird one, actually."

If _Marianne_ is categorising this as weird Héloïse is about to get genuinely concerned.

"There's a research guy I keep in touch with and we just email a bit and I hadn't heard back from him and, well, turns out that's because he's dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Héloïse gravitates.

"We weren't close or anything. I just can't shake this feeling about it."

"What happened?"

"They said there was a break-in, at the lab."

Héloïse knows exactly where this is going. "You want to go take a look?"

The relief on Marianne's face is equal parts gratifying and heartbreaking. "Thank you. That will make me feel so much better."

* * *

Marianne needs something from home, some copy of her correspondence with the victim, so on the way to the airport they swing by her apartment. Héloïse has deposited and retrieved her many times by now but never made it any further than being parked outside.

"I'll just be a minute," Marianne says. "You're probably best staying here. Guarding the car."

"Or I could come up." Héloïse wants to come up. Has long wanted to see Marianne's natural habitat.

Partly, yes, simple curiosity. Marianne is a curiosity and has spent increasing amounts of time finding unlikely seats about Héloïse’s apartment and while Héloïse intends to stand she wants the imbalance redressed. She wants to be able to think of where Marianne is, to picture her there. When they are on the phone or Marianne refers to doing something in her apartment Héloïse can only imagine a blank space. Or she imagines something like the office. Chaotic and untamed. Something like Marianne herself.

Fine, so it's entirely curiosity.

Marianne flashes with consternation though she can hardly be surprised. "Okay. Just don't say anything."

"At all? About anything?" Héloïse fairly leaps from the car. Is rewarded with a sceptical look from Marianne.

They traverse the lobby unimpeded. "Hey Joe." Greets a neighbour. Marianne pokes at the elevator buttons but when they light up and the doors ping open she turns away. "Checking it got fixed," she simply says. After the third flight of stairs they turn into the hall. Scabby carpet and scuffed paint. Marianne points to a chunk of plaster missing. "That was me." Héloïse does not enquire further.

A few doors further and Marianne stops, pats herself down for keys. "Come on in."

Héloïse pauses on the threshold. It's small. A high ceiling that angles down toward large windows. To Héloïse's left is a kitchen of sorts though the counter is occupied with shoes and a popcorn maker. In front is the living room. A couch that Marianne is leaning over currently, coffee table piled high with books and papers. A PC on a desk under the window, evidence of late-night activity in an empty packet of chips alongside, crumpled foil. The desk chair seems to be housing Marianne's clothes. It's wild, yes, but much as Héloïse expected.

Marianne has piled sheets, blankets, and pillows at one end of the couch. "Take a seat. Shan't be long."

Héloïse does. Looks at some of the books - titles referring to psychology, the occult, conspiracy theories. Just a little light bedtime reading. She is sitting on Marianne's bed.

Rocketed upward Héloïse takes some glasses and a plate from the coffee table into the kitchen. Marianne has disappeared off into one of the two doors on the other side of the room. The door is not shut. There is movement. Héloïse cannot help herself.

When she moves into the room Marianne looks up guiltily. Héloïse can see why. One side is a mountain of filing cabinets, boxes, and file folders topped with sheets of paper and newspapers. More boxes in the centre of the room. Marianne is digging around in them.

It's the walls though.

"And there it is," Héloïse can't help but say out loud.

"Surprise," says Marianne with the tone of one who knows it is no surprise at all.

A timeline runs over two walls. A map with pins. Newspaper cuttings and Marianne's scribbled notes. A lot of exclamation points. Photographs and illustrations and faded photocopies. More red string.

"What is it?" Héloïse asks, taking a step in.

"Over a hundred years of alien abductions. That or a delusional disorder. Take your pick." Marianne is embarrassed, comes the realisation.

"You've got an office, you know. You don't need to lose a bedroom to this." Already knowing why Marianne can't do this at work.

Marianne shrugs. "What's the point having a whole room just to be unconscious in?"

"That's not the only thing - never mind."

"Okay!" Marianne declares, seizing at a piece of paper. "Got it, let's go!"

* * *

**December 14, 1993**  
**Herronville, New York**

Marianne yawns as they pull up at the motel. The car churns up the slush of snow so that Héloïse is preemptively complaining about the cold and getting her feet wet. "Where's your jacket?" Marianne asks.

"I thought we agreed we were never mentioning that jacket again?"

"No, you _told_ me never to mention it again. I didn't agree to those conditions."

"It's buried deep in my closet. I think it's cursed."

"Now you're talking my language." Teasing, Héloïse rolling her eyes. "So, check-in. What's the score?"

"God, what a dump." Héloïse looks at the motel then flips through her notebook. "I need to add my point for checking in at the airport... there. Motel check-in: three points up for grabs."

"If I check-in does that get me enough points to choose the movie tonight?"

Héloïse consults the tally. "Yes. You can spend three on a drama, five on sci-fi. But you're leaving it wide open for me to choose the restaurant."

"I'll take the risk." Marianne wades through the snow, impervious in her boots. When she gets to the check-in desk she has to ring the little bell which should probably earn an extra point, given the scowl on the face of the proprietor it summons. But they are admitted without any great issue and Héloïse is waiting outside with their bags.

"Do you mind if I take the even?" Marianne consults the keys.

"Take whichever you like. I have no strange superstitions as to numbers, as you well know."

"I don't mind fives."

"Okay," Héloïse says. "But I don't mind _any_ number."

"And thirteen is my lucky number even though it's odd."

"Right." Héloïse smiles now. Wearing her down.

They go into Héloïse's room - number seventeen - for Héloïse to dump her bag. To 'freshen up' and other such euphemisms. Marianne watches Héloïse inspecting the room. "Probably bed bugs," Héloïse says and Marianne can only agree, which apparently was not the response Héloïse was hoping for, judging by the look on her face.

Marianne reclines on the bed anyway, waiting for Héloïse. "So I vote we head to this lab," Marianne proposes. To business.

"I was going to say we should introduce ourselves to the locals."

"Okay, so we split up."

It could be, it could almost be, disappointment on Héloïse's face now. "No," she says, "the lab then."

* * *

Dr Rowland Kao, an entomologist - not etymologist, quite different things - is studying insect social structures and worked with Dr Betz, recently deceased.

He shows them the back office that was burgled and the spot where he found the body in the hallway.

"Is there anyone who might have had a disagreement with Dr Betz?"

"No. Not that I know of."

Héloïse is doing a grand job of interrogating Dr Kao and Marianne leaves her to it.

She is far more interested in the rest of the place. Peers through the glass into the intricate habitats. Tanks full of soil, bisecting ant cities. Leafcutters traverse a branch suspended in the centre.

With her best British accent and a hushed voice she details the adventures of the spiders as one ensnares its prey. "The ant struggles, and so seals its fate. The threads carry the vibrations back to the spider, who has no need to hurry. Her meals are suspended in mid-air..."

Héloïse and Dr Kao - having survived his ordeal - catch up with her. "Are any of the animals missing?" she asks.

"The specimens? No tanks were taken and nothing seems to have been tampered with. Though if they took one ant we'd hardly know. There are millions here."

Marianne nods. Looks across at Héloïse watching the beehive through its glass back. Moves over, as though they were walking through an insect book, just on a day out.

Héloïse smiles at her approach. "Did you know, there's estimated to be ten quintillion in total insect population. Which means there are one and a half billion of them for each of us."

"Which one and a half billion are mine? This is a lot of responsibility, I'm not sure I'm ready for this."

It makes Héloïse smile again, as intended, as Marianne only ever intends. A crinkling of her eyes and a little smirk that she fights against and loses.

Dr Kao is back. "Bees and ants are of the order hymenoptera - ants share a lineage with wasps. They are interesting for their social connections, colonies, and so on."

Marianne really ought to be paying attention. "Is that what you study too?"

"Yes."

"Is it just studying? Or are there experiments?"

"We test different theories about behaviours."

"But not, like, mutants?"

For a moment he just stares. Then laughs. "No. Not mutants." Something just a little bit unsure. 

"Why spiders? They don't have colonies."

"Dr Betz had started to take an interest."

"Huh. Thanks."

He leaves them to it, assuring Marianne he is available should she need.

"I've always had the suspicion," she says to Héloïse, "that insects are in fact alien species. I mean, just look at them."

"The fact that I am not quite sure whether this is another of your jokes," Héloïse murmurs back, "is going to keep me up all night."

An excellent response. "Which are more interesting, spiders or bees?"

"Bees," Héloïse says without hesitation. "It's fascinating, actually," she begins and Marianne settles herself in for a delightful digression, to watch Héloïse's hands itemising her points, the thoughtful little frown. "Because male bees are produced by unfertilised eggs..." and Marianne smiles through Héloïse outlining the finer points of bee reproduction. And she knew, of course she knew, this wasn't her first haplodiploid rodeo but nothing could induce her to stop Héloïse when she got excited about something.

* * *

As they leave, Marianne having remembered to ask a few more questions of Dr Kao, she says, "I want to know more about the lab."

"Of course you do," Héloïse says. "Get Sophie to do it."

"I'm not going to _get_ Sophie to do anything," Marianne objects. "That's not how it works."

"She likes helping you. And it's good experience for her."

"No, I know. I will _ask_ her if she wouldn't mind looking into it for me. Can I have your cell phone?"

So she calls Sophie while Héloïse drives them through the woods, back to town and the police station and even with the inducement of points up for grabs they are reluctant to go and make their introductions.

Marianne does it anyway. Lays it on a bit thick about her 'friend' Dr Betz. Excessive praise for the efforts the force was putting into the enquiry. So that they are allowed to look at the case file, huddled over a desk.

"Seems in order to me," Héloïse concludes.

"Barely any evidence of a burglary. One smashed window. All very tidy." Marianne keeps her voice low. "There are computers all over the place. Why that lab? Why go all the way out there? Organised enough for that, but not to avoid shooting the poor guy."

Héloïse shrugs. "Poor security? Isolated? Then taken by surprise. Unless... do _you_ know anyone who might have taken issue with Dr Betz or his work? I assume if you were talking with him he wasn't your common or garden entomologist. That there was something..." she waves her hand airily.

"Something what?" Marianne attempts to prompt a repeat or an escalation.

"You know," Héloïse says with a delightful coyness. " _Something_."

This situation stands a real chance of devolving into untold hours of distraction and very little work being achieved. "I don't know what he was working on."

"You have your suspicions no doubt. Is that what you needed from home?"

"Oh, I... that turned out to be nothing." It turned out to be an order form for liquid iodine, grabbed in a panic, nothing to do with anything. "I got distracted."

The culprit moves swiftly on. "They've got some good leads. I'd be confident they will find the perpetrators." Héloïse tips her head. "Come on, time to get you something to eat."

* * *

They go to a generically Italian place, presumably so that Héloïse can have grown-up food while allowing Marianne to have pizza, which she feels both bad about and thrilled by.

Afterward, in the video store, Marianne makes haste to choose because Héloïse is loitering uncomfortably, shining somehow, and Marianne can only assume it is with vexation.

Picks up and discards Flight of the Navigator because that might make her cry. "Tron!" - very cool and helpful to have Héloïse watch should they ever get trapped in a computer network. Rethinks that, based on Héloïse's pained expression. She had compromised so nicely about the meal. She deserves something she might actually enjoy. "Okay, Henry V, let's go."

They stop at a gas station for some more snacks, though in truth Marianne doesn't feel much like anything else to eat.

In Héloïse's room - Marianne hasn't stepped foot in her own yet - Marianne gets herself settled on the bed but Héloïse takes up her loitering again.

"You know, I feel a little..." and she doesn't finish but the urgency of her escape to the bathroom is clear.

Marianne follows to find her bending over the toilet bowl, reaching back to wave Marianne away until her full attention is taken up by the retching. When she has finished she leans back against the bath. "One forgets, between times, how unpleasant vomiting actually is."

Then she bends again and Marianne rubs sympathetically at her back. "Let me get you some water." The standing up though: makes her feel a little lightheaded. A bit warm.

She flushes the toilet, Héloïse sits back, and takes the water. "You shouldn't - you don't have to stay here."

Marianne sits opposite. "No, it's fine, it's a miserable business and - actually -" and on hands and knees she makes it to the toilet bowl just in time.

She rocks back on her heels. "Unpleasant is about right, yes."

"That restaurant - flush it quick -" a pause for the noise, "food poisoning." Héloïse is still out of breath from the exertion, poor thing.

"I think you should get your restaurant-choosing points back."

"That's too kind but I think I should have to pay a penalty for choosing somewhere that gave us food poisoning. How do you feel?"

"Better, now, I think, having got it out." This turns out to be untrue, there is still more to be got out and she's vaguely aware of Héloïse hovering behind her, then passing her the water. "And I am under medical supervision."

"Just as well, given your penchant for disaster. I do think, sometimes that it might be as well for me to know about those sorts of things... but no matter."

Poor Héloïse lost her nerve before she got to the end of the sentence and Marianne wants to be encouraging, except, "Hang on," she says, "I just -" and is sick again. Flushes and slumps back down next to Héloïse. "Where was I. Oh, yes. I see. You have professional concerns about my medical history."

"Not at all. I have a personal concern. For you. If there were things you wanted to talk about."

It's a concern Marianne is accustomed to fending off. So instead she asks, "Is there something you want to talk about?" because every day she feels the wellspring of things Héloïse probably ought to talk about, bubbling barely under the surface. Hears the echoing 'Lots of things happened.' An obliquely referenced timeline of 'a while' and a 'few months' coalescing into something.

"I saw, that time with the hypnotism, I saw your medication."

Which Marianne has suspected for a while though been unsurprised it has taken this long to get around to it. "Ah." But Héloïse does not seem entirely finished. So Marianne waits.

"I suppose it's only - you don't _seem_ depressed." There's a fidget to her.

"That's how you know they are working," Marianne smiles gently. "It's sort of the point."

Héloïse makes it to the sink and rinses her mouth out. "It's just -" she's looking away, couldn't be close by, Marianne tries not to move, barely breathing, not to distract from whatever is coming. "I take them too."

"Is it helping?"

"I'm not sure." She sits back down, opposite, against the door. So tired and fragile and washed out that Marianne almost can't look at her. There's a ghost of her in Marianne's arms when Marianne thought she could protect her and help her and chase the monsters away. "Foolish. Expecting a pill to fix all my problems."

It's a very real panic, right in Marianne's chest. Wanting to scramble over there and take hold of her. "No but, let's say you're drowning. You take a pill. Yes, you're still underwater. But at least you can breathe. Perhaps you figure out how to swim. Perhaps one day you just float back up. Perhaps you never do. The important part is you can breathe. And you don't have to do it on your own."

"Nor do you." Héloïse looks down at her hands, wringing them in her lap. Shakes her head and gets up again, splashing water on her face. "Any more, do you think?"

"No. Empty."

"Good. I think it prudent to stay close to the bathroom."

No snacks, more water, and they leave the door open for a quick getaway to the bathroom. A bit of Shakespeare and soon Marianne is drifting a little, bobbing around on the ocean. She doesn't come back properly until Héloïse moves from the bed and the distant hum of the television is switched off. Marianne yawns. "I'm sorry, I think I was asleep a bit there."

"Were you?" but it's too tight to be real surprise.

"I'll get to my room. But I'm just there." She points to the wall. "So give me a knock or a shout. If you need me."

Héloïse's wide eyes in the dim light. "You could - okay. Good night."

Marianne sleeps poorly, on alert all night to any sound on the other side of the wall.

* * *

They have a tentative breakfast. Hungry but still sounding out the delicacy of their stomachs. Héloïse turns down a coffee, which brings its own hazards, she knows. Eats only toast and drinks more water. Today is likely to be unpleasant.

A call from the police station indicates it might at least be short. An arrest has been made. Case closed.

Except that Marianne is clearly unconvinced. There's something in her shoulders that fights against it. Can't just take a win and walk away. "I'd like to at least see what Sophie comes back with."

Héloïse sighs. "I don't think it will matter. They found the guy. Found the gun and the computers."

"Minus their hard drives. Do you think they'll let me speak to him?"

"Speak to their suspect when you've got no official involvement in the case? No, almost certainly not." Stop, she tells herself. She does not. "There's no evidence of anything. It doesn't have to be a conspiracy or aliens or the paranormal all the time. Sometimes people just die. For no good reason." Spitting it out.

"I know. It just feels like there's something more here. And that's our jobs. Being able to look past all the other stuff."

"You're so quick to look past all the rational explanations. Almost as though you _want_ to find something strange."

"I want to find out the truth. Dr Betz deserves that, other people deserve that. I -" She looks around at the other diners, displaying more discretion than Héloïse might have imagined. "My parents were abducted by aliens and you would not _believe_ the lengths people go to telling me it can't be true."

Héloïse can believe it because she's about to do it now. "You must know," she says, "experiencing trauma like that as a child can manifest in all sorts of ways."

"I do know." Marianne even manages a little smile. "I am a reasonably well-qualified psychologist, you'll find."

"I've never seen better," Héloïse says firmly. Just to put that out there.

"But you don't believe me?"

"It's not a question of believing."

"Héloïse, you saw mythological creatures come to life off an urn and wander around Washington." She says it like it's a joke.

"Stop." The way Marianne freezes, the chill. It's a fear and Héloïse feels it too. "I don't know what I saw."

Despite the resistance Marianne presses on, presses forward, leaning across the table. "You do. I know it's hard. I know things have been hard for you. But you knew then, you believed. I saw you. You were right there with me and it felt good, it felt right."

How good it felt, how right, does nothing to quash Héloïse's panic. "Fine. Go back to the police station. But this is a personal vendetta, not an X-Files case. I'm going back to DC." Hits the eject button, gets up from the table.

Marianne stands, makes the appeal. "Please don't run away from this. From me. Please let me -"

Héloïse walks out the door.

* * *

Out of the town limits and Héloïse has to pull over as her vision becomes obscured. Rubs angrily at her face. She hasn't cried like this... she can't even remember since when. Certainly not since March, since everything imploded. Not a single tear over Val and Tom and her mother and everything that happened. Recognising that was part of it now, finally.

She winds the window down, lets the cold air in to fortify her. After a few minutes finds she can breathe again. Finds also a cassette tape abandoned on the dash and puts it into the stereo. Needs to get angry and yell.

* * *

She doesn't make it to the airport. She's a few hours of blasting her eardrums before she does a dramatic u-turn and takes some liberties with the speed limit back to Herronville. Back to Marianne.

* * *

Except Marianne is not at the police station, has already left. Was there only briefly, explains the desk clerk. So Héloïse turns around and goes back to the motel, hoping, just hoping, Marianne hasn't gone on an expedition into the woods to the lab because it's snowing and the days are short and she's on her own and of course she would do that.

At the motel there is no Marianne. Héloïse goes first into her own room, then knocks on Marianne's door. Peers through the window and knocks again. "Marianne!" But she's not there. Neither is her bag. "Shit."

* * *

Héloïse had been right, naturally, that Marianne is not allowed to speak to the suspect. Marianne wants to explain what is at stake, that it's not simply justice for Dr Betz or for whichever poor soul has become embroiled as a culprit or opposition to this murky web of connections Marianne can't quite grasp at yet - but reconfiguring Héloïse's reality. Which is a tricky business at the best of times and one she is currently failing at. Has failed at. Héloïse isn't coming back - ever - and she reminds herself the departure is inevitable and it is in fact the three months that have been the aberration, not the leaving.

It's in this particularly unhelpfully desolate mood that she trudges up the road to the lab determined to find out what Betz was up to because there has to be _something_. The crows eye her as a potential lunch and she ignores their harrying, the frenzy of them, until she makes it into the lab scattering snow from her boots as she stamps on the mat.

"Dr Kao?" she calls, without much in the way of conviction. A noise draws her further in, back to the hallway. "Oh, hello."

It's not a large spider, this dark shape tucked between the wall and ceiling. That would make it sound almost normal. It is a giant spider. It could be a person, more. The size of it brings the bizarre details into upsetting focus. The eight glistening eyes, the bristling hairs, the entirely too large jaws: this is all information Marianne would rather not have. "No, thank you."

Her escape is short-lived. Not even to the door before the web tangles her legs and she lands flat on the floor. The spider is large enough that its tapping footsteps can be heard approaching behind her as she scrambles on her elbows before she is picked up and carried away.

* * *

"Marianne!"

Marianne perks up at this. She is currently attached to the ceiling of the lab and the sound of Héloïse's voice presents its own problems but is very welcome.

"Héloïse, don't -" she starts to call back as the door flies open and Héloïse marches in.

And is immediately caught in the spider's web spun over the door.

"What the actual -" Héloïse begins.

"Giant spider," Marianne provides. Héloïse finally locates her, semi-cocooned up here on the ceiling. "You came back."

Héloïse softens, while suspended, trapped and straining, against the strands of silk. "Of course I came back." She's trying to grasp at something else. Marianne dare not hope it's an apology, believes it more likely to be an admonition. "Are you all right up there?"

"Yes, having a fine old time, thank you."

"Any other injuries?"

"Well, it bit me a bit, so I can't wait for my superpowers to kick in. Flying might be fun but unlikely to come from a mutant spider. Can you fly?"

"No," Héloïse replies firmly. "That might be a muscle relaxant it's injected you with."

"I do feel very relaxed."

"You are almost always entirely too relaxed." Héloïse is concentrating, however, on getting her foot across to Marianne's bag dropped by the door. "But it's not that kind of relaxed I'm concerned about. Where is it now, this spider?"

"Spidering around here somewhere. I don't even mind spiders, as a rule, but I draw the line at ones the size of cows." She performs a quick test. "I can still wiggle my toes," she confirms.

"Good. Are you changing your mind about a tarantula?"

"No!" Marianne says emphatically.

Héloïse tests the flex in the web, the resistance, building a rhythm of stretching for the backpack, already hooked on her foot and being dragged closer. She's going to manage this. Everything under control. "What should I be looking for in here?"

"Are you hungry?"

"To get us out."

"Oh, well, there's a lighter in the top pocket. I suppose the problem is that you are flammable even if the web isn't."

"Anything sharp?"

"I'm on and off planes every other day with that thing, you think I've got a machete?"

Héloïse looks hopeful for a moment and it's very sweet but Marianne is going to have to disappoint yet again. "Any bug spray?" Héloïse strains to reach.

"I don't use aerosols, Héloïse, haven't you heard about the hole in the ozone layer?"

"No machete," Héloïse grumbles, "no bug spray, honestly," but the perturbation isn't real, there's amusement in her voice and Marianne - dangling from the ceiling in a burrito of silk, ready to be eaten - could listen to this all day.

"No feather duster..."

"Now _that_ I can believe."

"Bleach," Marianne realises. "Bleach? Little spray bottle."

Immediately Héloïse is spritzing the cobweb, watching it dissolve. Moving, spraying, making her way out of her trap. "That'll do." She wriggles free and dashes from the room.

"I'll just wait here," Marianne calls after her. "Don't worry about me."

This habit of returning continues though. Héloïse is back with a knife, dragging a chair over, cutting at the web. Marianne drops directly off the ceiling with a muffled thump and exclamation, Héloïse trying to cushion her fall but still ending up on the floor. In a tangle of Héloïse's arms, being looked down on.

"Are you all right?"

Marianne has never been better.

"I wanted to say -"

There's a noise. Marianne herself wants to say, Go on. What she actually, much more appropriately says, is, "Spider."

"Spider," Héloïse agrees.

They scramble to their feet, Héloïse supporting her in case of muscle relaxant but she feels perfectly stable except not at all though it's nothing to do with spider bites and everything to do with the fact Héloïse is here and concerned and... Spider.

Here it comes. Creeping across the wall.

"That is an extremely large spider," Héloïse confirms.

Marianne dives over to her bag, a lot of the contents conveniently scattered across the floor already. Coiled up at the bottom is the lasso.

There hasn't been much in the way of practice yet but this isn't actually a rodeo and there are no points for skill and none in evidence as Marianne hops about, dodging legs and those jaws again. Héloïse catches on as quickly as usual and distracts the front end of the spider by poking it with a chair.

This allows Marianne to get the rope behind and over the abdomen, tightening it, dodging some more, and twisting about a pillar, managing to secure the spider on a short leash.

"Nicely done," Héloïse says, dusting off her hands, a moment of high praise.

Marianne feels really rather pleased with herself. "I took your feedback. About the lasso."

They locate Dr Kao in the office and snip him out of his web with a lot more care than was afforded Marianne.

"Did you see -" he gasps.

"We did. We also vanquished. For a while at least."

He is shaken up. "I don't know how it's possible. Dr Betz had a theory. But we don't have those kinds of facilities here."

"Other people do." The sorts of people who might have the records of those theories stolen. Their creator killed.

* * *

First things first: giant spider. With it corralled in one of the larger habitats Marianne and Dr Kao discuss options. Marianne feels someone, the mysterious _they_ she likes to invoke, will be along to collect it and that it would be best _they_ do not know the other they - the three of them - know of its existence.

Héloïse votes for running it over with the car but Marianne is having none of this. Nor of burning the lab down.

Instead the three of them head back into town, evacuating the scene. Héloïse drives and Dr Kao is intensely processing his feelings about the day's events. Going over and over. Trying to make sense of them. Héloïse keeps shooting glances over at Marianne. Who is very patiently listening and nodding and not seeming in the least irritated by any of it. "I know," she says very sympathetically each time the story starts again.

When they drop Dr Kao off Marianne gives him her number. "Call me any time you need to talk, honestly."

Now they are on their own all of a sudden. Héloïse exhales.

"Well, that was exciting," Marianne declares.

Héloïse’s heart rate is barely back to normal and now she is going to elevate it all over again.

"I shouldn't have left," she blurts out. "It was wrong of me."

"I understand." Worse, somehow. "If you want to get your transfer, when we are back in Washington, that's okay," Marianne continues.

"I don't want that."

Marianne looks at her and every instinct is to fight it. To push back, pull away. It takes more strength to remain.

"You might. When this all gets too hard, too weird."

"How much weirder are we expecting?" Héloïse attempts a smile.

"You haven't even started to see yet. And when you do -"

"I won't leave," Héloïse says before she can think any more about it. Only one word off from how she had practised. Miles away but close enough.

She watches it break over Marianne. Watches her breathe, her shoulders loosen. The slow smile, the nod. The return of something. In Héloïse, something like hope.

Héloïse starts the car. "Does this mean I have to start believing in Santa now?"

"Santa is absolutely real."

Drives off. "Of course he is."

"Actually, Santa is a she."

Of course she is.


	13. It Must Be Wednesday

The alarm clock rattles its way off the coffee table. Marianne sits and rubs the heels of her palms into her eyes, stretches. Throws the duvet off and rises from the couch. 

Héloïse smacks her hand onto her alarm clock and buries her head back into her pillow. 

Steam and singing comes from the door of Marianne's bathroom. 

Héloïse again smacks at her alarm clock, putting her head under her pillow. 

Towelling her hair, Marianne opens cupboard doors in the kitchen, searching for something to eat. 

Héloïse smacks at her alarm clock, this time knocking over a glass of water and the clock from the bedside table. 

With a slice of pizza hanging from her mouth and a banana in hand, Marianne exits her apartment building, looking up at the low, white sky. 

Héloïse sighs and reluctantly dangles her legs over the edge of the bed, scratching at her tousled hair and stumbling to the bathroom. 

Getting herself settled on the bus Marianne pulls out her book and starts on her banana. 

Héloïse gives herself the once over in the steamy bathroom mirror. Bares her teeth, pulls her eyes open. Pokes at the risen pink scar on her shoulder, rolling her arm around and wincing. 

Flicking on the office lights, bidding good morning to the stick insects, giving them a spray while checking the answer machine, Marianne potters around the office.

Héloïse hurries to her car, pulling her coat on, and is immediately caught up in traffic going at a crawl.

Feet up on the desk, keyboard in her lap, Marianne types up some correspondence.

Héloïse picks up a coffee from the cart outside and enters the hulking rectangular building. Swipes through security, past the main elevators, down a hall busy with suits, glass windows into once-covetable offices. Through the bullpen bustling with agents answering phones and striding purposefully about. A quick wave and good morning to Sophie as she crosses, away to the stairs at the back. Descending into the basement. Stairs, corner, door. 

Marianne, lighting up. 

* * *

**December 22, 1993**

"Good morning, how are you today?"

"Fine, thank you. And you?" Héloïse puts her bag down. 

"Very well indeed."

Héloïse waits. Waits a little more. Gives up on waiting. "So?"

"Mm?" Marianne's head bobs up. 

"What is in store for us today?"

"Oh! Nothing."

"Nothing at all? In the whole of the United States not one single inexplicable thing is happening?"

"Not that I've heard about in the last -" Marianne consults her watch, "twelve hours. Though the day is still young. Which means, your favourite: Paperwork." 

Héloïse checks her in-tray. It is empty. "There are cold cases?"

"There are." Marianne points her pen at one of the filing cabinets. "Not so much cold as frozen solid." 

"What are you doing?"

Marianne holds up the magazine she's reading. Something trashy and sensationalist. "Report of a talking dog."

"Well? Are we going to check it out?"

"Dogs don't talk, Héloïse."

The absolute _audacity_ \- that _Héloïse_ needed to be told - the _confidence_ with which it is delivered - "I know that." Objections bloom and wither on Héloïse's lips as she opens and closes her mouth. The gall - the sheer nerve - 

"I'm just teasing, sure dogs talk. Sometimes. Big ones, under certain circumstances. Jury's still out on the little ones. We'll keep an eye on the talking dog situation. If it starts talking about the apocalypse or murders people _then_ we go to Florida, deal?"

Héloïse takes a moment to compose herself. Then another. Another for good measure. "There must be something you want to investigate?"

There's a flicker on Marianne's face for just a moment. Frozen solid. "Yes." She swallows. Then transforms. "Yes! One day we'll finally have the answer to the most important X-File: where are all the missing odd socks? If we could solve that we'd be millionaires." 

"Why millionaires?" 

"Ransom? I don't know." 

Héloïse hides her smile. "Theory?" 

"Teleported to the Witch Head Nebula." 

"Of course." Héloïse realises she isn't even slightly surprised. "So what are you waiting for? Open the case." 

"Is this not misuse of FBI resources?" Marianne clearly can't believe her luck. 

"For one sheet of paper and two minutes of you filling it in?" Marianne is looking at her. Héloïse can feel it. Trying to affect nonchalance. "To make you happy?"

* * *

Paperwork initiated on the mystery of the odd socks, Héloïse spins round in her chair, in deep contemplation of the ceiling. 

"What's that?" A tiny shape on the tiles, almost imperceptible against the texture of the ugly things. But moving. "Marianne," she says with increasing urgency. "What is that." 

Marianne pushes off from her desk, launches herself over. "What?" Looks up also. "Uh oh." A quick scramble over to the counter and the - empty - stick insect case. "Oh no."

* * *

Héloïse is stood on the desk with a mug she is collecting creepy crawlies into. Marianne has pulled the table from the wall minimally in order to check behind it, lying on her stomach and half-dangled down. 

"It's not that they _are_ aliens," Héloïse is in the middle of saying, "it's that the popular conception of what aliens might look like has been derived from them."

Marianne kicks her legs, her head being hidden from Héloïse. "But how do you _know_? The planet could be literally crawling with aliens. Look at angler fish."

"Angler fish?"

Marianne doesn't hesitate. "Aliens."

The door opens. Sophie walks in. Wide eyes take in the scene. A moment of waiting for a comment. With something a little like resignation, she says, "The new Assistant Director wants to see you both."

* * *

Marianne and Héloïse loiter around Sophie's desk watching people shuffling in and out of the new AD's office. Waiting their turn. 

"He resigned?" Héloïse asks. 

"He was off sick after, you know, the _museum incident_." Sophie applies a good deal of emphasis to _museum incident_ though stops short of air quotes. 

Marianne nods sagely and takes one of Sophie's biscuits. "That happens. I should probably invite him along to the Tuesday pizza nights." 

"AD Skinner is seeing everyone. One at a time." Sophie's eyes on a slow meander back and forth between them, the absolutely minimal space between as Marianne leans on the desk and Héloïse angles herself closer. 

"She means we have to get our story straight," Héloïse murmurs. 

"About the stick insects?" 

Which reminds Héloïse. "Blob fish?" 

"Which ones are those?" 

"The ones with the noses."

"Ghosts," comes back easily.

Héloïse shakes her head in despair. Anyway, "There's no way he would know about the stick insects unless you go in there and tell him. Which you should not."

"No stick insects, got it. Anything else?"

"Maybe go easy on..." Héloïse fails to come up with a summation. "Just, go easy." 

The AD's assistant comes out. "Mulder?"

"That's me," Marianne says helpfully, traipsing over with a skip. Turning in the doorway to wink at Héloïse. None of which makes it easy to suppress a bubbling joy. Which only finds its release once Marianne has disappeared, an incredulous sigh. 

"Everything okay?" Sophie asks, managing to somehow both look at her computer and Héloïse at the same time. 

"Yes. Although, who knows what trouble Marianne is currently getting herself into." 

"I don't get the impression he's gunning for the X-Files," Sophie says with perfect confidence.

"Did you know, when I started here?" It's something Héloïse has wondered, has berated herself over, has never known how contrite to be about around Sophie. 

Sophie's eyes cast down. "I felt bad I didn't warn her. Not about you. About any of it. I didn't _know_ know. Just heard some things. And I'd only been here a few weeks."

"You mustn't. It had nothing at all to do with you. It had a lot to do with me, however, and I just want you to know it's different now."

"I know." 

"There's a lot at stake." 

Which Héloïse has been thinking over at great length. All that insomnia being put to use. Imagining... well. Not just imagining that. Running through the many and varied ways the X-Files could be shut down or that Héloïse might be forced out. Leaving when she had promised she wouldn't. When too many people already had. Then there would be a new partner who didn't care and couldn't look after Marianne or no partner at all and she'd be back to running around alone in the night. Or the X-Files being closed. Or worse things that could happen. 

Managing to very neatly make it sound as though all this concern were entirely for Marianne's benefit. Not that Héloïse couldn't imagine her days without Marianne in them. Someone to lean against. To hold her upright. Someone to follow. To know she too would be followed. 

A terror rattles through her. "So we have to be careful." Héloïse looks back over her shoulder, trying to find an invisible Marianne. "Toe the line."

* * *

Marianne is shown into the office where the new AD rises from the desk for a quick handshake. "Skinner," he introduces himself. The other guy - what had his name been? She must have known at some point. 

"Marianne," she says. 

"Yes." He sits back down, starts turning over some of the many, many pages in her file. "You keep yourself busy, Agent."

"Do my best."

"What exactly is it that you do?"

"The unexplained. The weird and wonderful."

He looks up at her through his glasses, a look she is deeply familiar with from attempted authority figures. He feels calm though. Unruffled. They discuss a little of the day-to-day. Other than today. Steering well clear of stick insects. 

Leaning back in his chair, still paging through her file. Must be fascinating reading. "And you enjoy your work?"

"Yes." It's next to impossible to explain how she feels about the X-Files but none of her bosses have ever asked if she enjoys her work. Which is not even slightly the right word. 

"Agent Scully -" 

"I'm Mulder." 

"Yes, but I'm talking about Héloïse." 

"Right! Yes. Got you. Please continue." 

"How do you feel Agent Scully has taken to the role? It seems she was assigned under interesting circumstances." 

Just the thought of Héloïse galvanises Marianne into leaning forward, becoming animated. "She's amazing, obviously. She's getting the hang of things. And the interesting circumstances: all that's under control. Unless you are going to try again at shutting us down?" 

"Not I, though I know my predecessor ended up seeing a lot more of the X-Files than he would have liked." 

"I saw a lot more of him than I liked," Marianne snorts before realising that might not have been the most politic thing to say. She's not going to apologise for it though.

Skinner considers this. Steeples his fingers. "A deal, then, to see as little of each other as possible. You stay out of trouble, I stay out of your way." 

"Thing is, X-Files sort of has trouble baked in." Impolitic, again. With great positivity she concludes, "We'll do our best." 

* * *

Héloïse gets back into the office after her own interview, where Marianne is setting up a game of Battleship on her desk. It really is a slow day. 

"How was it?" Marianne asks as Héloïse pulls her chair over to sit opposite. 

"He seems calm, considered." It made a welcome change, though Héloïse's earlier fears were not entirely assuaged. 

"He asked me about you." 

"Asked me about you too." Lays out her little ships. Perfectly relaxed. 

"What did you say?" Marianne dares to ask the question Héloïse doesn't. 

"Oh, you know," Héloïse is airy. "Laid it on thick. Exemplary investigative skills, credit to the Bureau, inspired intuition..." Finally she drags her eyes back to meet Marianne's. "That I couldn't imagine doing this with anyone else." But it's too much. "That sort of thing."

"Okay," Marianne says after a moment. "You go first."

* * *

"Jellyfish?" 

"Ghosts of aliens. Stop trying to distract me."

"Distract you from what? You've got no technique, you're just guessing."

"You're cheating." 

"I don't cheat. I don't need to. I have logic."

"Normally I can tell. Look at me." Marianne narrows her eyes, trying to glimpse something. Staring at each other over the top of the board, across the desk. It's excruciatingly difficult to hold. Héloïse can feel the pressure mounting. But it's Marianne who looks down first. "With you though..." There's no attempt to finish. 

"You can read people. But it's not just that. When you talk to people it's like I can feel the air change. They open up to you. What is that?"

"You noticed that? Subliminal, I guess."

Héloïse isn't entirely convinced. Keeps tossing around words like empathetic and intuitive instead. "F-2."

"No way," Marianne complains as Héloïse sinks her final ship. "How?"

"I told you. Technique. Tactics. Logic. You're buying lunch."

* * *

They join the line in the cafeteria, inching toward the servery wielding plastic trays. 

"Platypus?" Héloïse asks. 

"Mm, interesting. The best evidence we have against intelligent design. Unless the intelligent designer has a sense of humour, which is not the impression I get." 

"A fair assessment." 

Once they arrive at their destination Marianne holds the line up further with chatting to the kitchen staff. Héloïse waits at the register but Marianne isn't coming, so she pays for them both and finds a table where Marianne joins her eventually. 

As soon as Marianne arrives a figure looms in Héloïse's periphery. Shuffling, clutching a file. "Sorry to disturb your lunch."

"Not at all!" Marianne chirps, against a distinct roll of the eyes from Héloïse.

"You're Agent Mulder, on the X-Files? Would you mind having a look at this case I've got?"

"Sure." Marianne holds her hand out for the file at the same time as Héloïse protests, "We're having lunch." 

Marianne flashes her a both conciliatory and amused smile. "Don't mind Héloïse," she says. "What have we got here?"

* * *

A crowd forms.

Héloïse flips open the case file. "Crocodile," she diagnoses and passes back. Having been roped into the effort. 

"That, my friend, is a bad case of doppelgangers," Marianne says perfectly cheerfully about the file currently in front of her.

Héloïse leans over to look. "Oh, yes."

Marianne takes the next, Héloïse watching her flick through the pages with great attention. "Check the water supply," and hands it back. 

"But Agent Mulder -"

"If Marianne says check the water supply then check the water supply," Héloïse interrupts. "I'm not sure why you are still here."

"Let us know how you get on," Marianne calls after him. 

"You're very suspicious of the water supply all the time."

"I have my reasons," Marianne says with an air of great mystery. "Next?"

* * *

By the time Sophie joins them the throng has mostly abated. A few stragglers have remained past the triage stage and are daring to be seen in their company. Héloïse is aggrieved Marianne has spent most of her lunch doing other people's work for them. Marianne on the other hand, seems to have enjoyed it, is all bright-eyed and enthusiastic. 

"It's good people are getting into it. Hi Sophie! We should get some actual philosophers on the FBI payroll. I don't know, I always think, if you see something you think is true, that your brain says is true, isn't that just as true as anything else?"

Agent Altmann, who Héloïse has seen around before, is currently having her world turned upside down, which Héloïse sympathises with deeply, and protests, "There has to be an objective truth. If for no other reason than that we are in law enforcement." 

"Does there? Different cultures see colours differently and have done throughout history. Human eyes see less than one ten-trillionth of the available light spectrum."

Sophie says, "Bees can see electromagnetic fields," which causes Marianne to smack the table and flourish in Sophie's direction. 

"There are _shrimp_ with six times more colour receptors than us," Marianne adds. Even though Héloïse suspects Marianne thinks shrimp are aliens. 

Héloïse wades in. "Of course there are things out there we are unable to sense. And then, once that data hits the brain, to process or accept." Smiling over at Marianne because she's here now, she has arrived. 

"And if a medical doctor says so..."

"We know so little about the brain, really. Considering its role in shaping our reality, in taking any of the quantitative input from our senses, our nervous system, and interpreting it." 

She reaches over and pinches Marianne's arm, who says "Ow!" and rubs at the spot. 

"It's not your arm that is in pain, it's your brain. Sorry." Héloïse puts her hand there too, soothes gently. 

"We rub the arm, not the brain though," Marianne observes, also observing Héloïse's hand on her. 

"Placating the nerve endings," Héloïse mutters. 

"Not sure placating my nerves is _entirely_ accurate." Marianne has fallen still. Héloïse's thumb moves softly. Independently of Héloïse's brain, itself under a storm of electrical impulses. 

"Fascinating!" Sophie says loudly and Héloïse is reminded they are in the middle of the cafeteria sitting amongst people. Her brain doing a remarkable job of filtering out all the unnecessary information, keeping only Marianne in focus. 

Marianne who moves, retreats. Héloïse's whole point undermined by the burning of her fingertips, the hammering of her heart, the shallowness of her lungs. Her mind blank as she sees Marianne put a hand to her arm, where Héloïse's had just been. Before shrugging her jacket back on, gathering everyone's trays and plates. A pause just for a moment as she leans towards Héloïse, eyes locking. Before a quick smile, retrieving the tray, moving away again. 

Brain function resumes and Héloïse manages to stand up and walk away as though she has control over her limbs. The three of them descend the stairs together.

There is additional spring in Marianne's step. "That was fun."

"That was working through your lunch break. What's the point of getting you to actually leave the office if you're just going to work in the cafeteria?"

"I'm surprised you didn't scare them off," Sophie says. "When Héloïse frowns she can literally freeze people in their tracks." 

Héloïse pushes out a breathy "pssh" noise and looks over the top of Sophie to where Marianne is looking back. Both observing reactions, which Héloïse supposes is a reaction in itself. Sophie continues, blithe and unaware.

Marianne says, "I'll take having fun working through my lunch break over being ignored or whispered about." Effectively changing the topic though giving Héloïse something new to get incensed about. 

Sophie peels off at her floor with a little wave. Héloïse pauses, not continuing down to the basement. Standing awkwardly for a moment until Marianne notices, a few steps away, turns. 

"I'm going out for a few hours. I've got my cell if anything comes up. I'll be back before the end of the day." 

Marianne is contrite. "Sorry about your lunch. I always know you're annoyed with me when you -" 

"I'm not." Half a step closer out of alarm. "Marianne, I'm never annoyed with you. I get annoyed, sometimes. More than I should. If I'm tired and feeling sore. But it's not with you." 

Marianne only nods and perhaps there could be more, should be more, were there not other people around, moving past. 

Instead Héloïse says, "Did you want to do something tonight?"

"Let me check my calendar," Marianne says. "See if it's a day ending in y. Oh, it's Wednesday. You're in luck." 

* * *

Héloïse sits in her doctor's office next to a plastic plant. Gathers herself. "It's just, I feel quite depressed for someone who is on anti-depressants. Better, than I was. But irritable, tired, low a lot of the time."

"Okay," her doctor says, leaning forward. "We can look into that." 

She'd read the literature, she knew the deal. This was some new wonder-drug and they were throwing handfuls of it at everyone. But still her mind felt trapped. Straining at the web, muffled and blurred underwater.

So they discuss doses and alternatives and contraindications and even just that helps. 

"Do you have someone you feel able to talk to? Family or a friend or even a colleague?" 

"Yes." Something lifts. That makes Héloïse feel light, buoyant. "My partner. Work - my work partner."

"That's good. Social support is important," the doctor says. A prescription is written out, torn off, handed over. "I'll see you in a month." 

* * *

Héloïse goes to the gun range. The comforting procedure, the equipment, the concentration. It reminds her of being in the academy. Back when things had made sense. When she had been sure of what she was doing, was supposed to be doing. 

* * *

Feeling refreshed and with a new clarity Héloïse gets back to the office to find Marianne busy wrangling a rucksack into wrapping paper. "Hello," she says. There's no response. Héloïse hears the tinny noise and sees the headphones. More importantly, Marianne humming, rising to the occasional out of tune word being drawn out. She approaches carefully but still manages to make Marianne jump when she draws alongside. 

"Hi," Marianne says, dragging the headphones off, stopping the music, blushing fantastically. "That was - did you hear that?" 

"When you listen in the car you sing a bit sometimes." 

"Do I? Sorry. You should give me a poke." 

"No. I like it." A warm feeling in her gut. 

"Cut me some tape?" Marianne asks and Héloïse makes herself useful. 

Héloïse watches her surreptitiously, sneaking little glances, preparing. "What are you doing on Saturday?"

"Why," Marianne says, Héloïse knowing full well what nonsense is coming, "what's on Saturday?" She smiles. "I'll be here, on cover. Makes sense. You?"

"I thought I should visit my mother."

Marianne nods. "That's good."

"Then I thought... I don't know. Perhaps I'd drop by. Bring you some pie."

"You don't have to."

"And if I want to?"

Marianne's voice is so soft, so quiet, Héloïse has to lean in, tense, waiting. "That would be nice."

It would be nice. 

Héloïse clears her throat. "What's..." 

"It's for Sophie." 

"I didn't get her anything. I didn't know if we were..." A finger indicating an exchange between them. 

"Doing gifts? No, I figured, I don't really do Christmas. Hence the being at work on Christmas." Except here she is, wrapping a present for Sophie. "How about half of Sophie's gift is actually my gift for you. And you can bring pie. If you want. If you get the chance. Or another day. Whenever. Does that make sense?"

"Not especially, no." She smiles. "Yes. That sounds good." 

* * *

"Sophie! How was your day?" Sophie's head is on her desk, which Marianne feels is probably a clue. 

"Irrelevant, I'm on holiday now."

She and Héloïse arrive at Sophie's desk. Marianne leans over the partition. "And speaking of. We got you this."

"Oh, you guys. I didn't get you anything." Sophie receives her armful of impressively-wrapped present - if Marianne does say so herself. 

"It was Marianne, really," Héloïse says. Marianne gives her a quick elbow.

Sophie tears into the paper, revealing the backpack with all its pockets and hooks and straps. Very useful. Very cool. 

"Aw, thank you, both of you. Hopefully I'll get the chance to try it out soon."

Marianne crosses her fingers.

"I'll get you some appropriate items to go in it," Héloïse promises. "Bug spray, penknife, actual useful things." 

Marianne elbows her again. "We're going bowling," she says. "You want to come?"

"Are we?" Héloïse need not look so taken aback, Marianne has been threatening this for some time. 

"Yes." 

* * *

So they go bowling and it's a rout as Héloïse obliterates rack after rack. Even allows herself to be high fived. Marianne never calls on The Force so much as she does when bowling but Héloïse is all analysis and adjustment, approaching it like a science project. Whereas Marianne can hardly get her limbs to obey her, especially knowing Héloïse is watching. A moment's distraction - imagining Héloïse close and wrapping an arm around, speaking low in her ear, guiding - puts the ball directly into the gutter. 

Worth it. 

The three of them eat nachos and have a beer amongst the teenagers and work Christmas parties. 

In the arcade Marianne has the upper hand. "Misspent youth," Héloïse murmurs and she has no idea. The flashing lights and clattering noises are an escape, a distraction. So not misspent at all, really. Essential. Right down to the chewing gum stuck to the jazzy carpet. 

Marianne seizes at Héloïse and pulls her from pinball to Pacman, exclaiming over all her favourites. Wanting Héloïse to try, wanting nothing more than to watch the concentration on her face. To discover yet another thing Héloïse is effortlessly good at or whether she will be frustrated. Both being equally desirable outcomes. And one never knew, with Héloïse. 

Héloïse who follows willingly, with far more forbearance than Marianne might have imagined. Marianne is about to launch into an enthusiasm - "Héloïse!" upon seeing a game - but Héloïse stills. Looks down at Marianne's hand on her arm, in mid-drag. "When you're excited about something... the way you say my name..." But she smiles and looks away then says, "Go on, show me how it works," as though Marianne is capable of forming sentences right now, let alone tutoring Street Fighter. 

* * *

It makes zero sense, the circuitous route Héloïse takes home. Driving past Marianne’s neighbourhood to drop Sophie off. 

Sophie chats away. Maybe she doesn't notice, high on Pepsi and the promise of going home tomorrow. Marianne notices and almost says something, as though Héloïse doesn't know exactly what she is doing. 

They call out their goodbyes and good wishes and Marianne movies up from the back seat before Héloïse starts heading back the way they came.

"You are so much better at bowling than I was led to believe."

"You are exactly as good at arcade games as I believed."

"That was fun."

Héloïse smiles, really smiles. All dazzling. Glancing over as she drives. "It was."

* * *

They pull up at Marianne's building. Héloïse switches the engine off. This is apparently not a quick drop-off. She's not saying anything though. Looks out the window fist to her shoulder.

"How are you sleeping?" 

"Fine," Héloïse nods, putting on a brave face. 

"It's just, when you're tired you rub your shoulder." Héloïse's hand drops. Marianne's palms burn. Let me, she wants to say. To take it from Héloïse, to placate and soothe sore nerves.

But she doesn't, she can't. 

So Marianne looks at her watch, functioning these days mostly as an Héloïse countdown timer. Ten and a half hours, spent mostly asleep. Doable. Not ideal but doable. "You'd better go. It's late."

"Yes. Good night," Héloïse says quietly. 

"See you tomorrow. Do this all over again."

"I can't wait." 

* * *

**December 25, 1993**

Héloïse, bundled up in hat and scarf with barely her eyes showing, radiates trepidation. The door swings open. But her mother's arms reach out and they hug on the porch before Héloïse is gently brought into the warm, bright house.

Later she unwinds herself from the scarf as she comes into the lobby of the Bureau headquarters. The solitary person on the front desk and two security guards bid her a merry Christmas and the return is cheerful and effortless.

Picking up the pace along the corridor toward and into the bullpen where the huddle of volunteer agents sit around playing wastepaper basketball and wagering with paper clips.

Off to the side, enjoying but not participating, is Marianne. Héloïse's pace breaks for a moment. At the sound of the door Marianne has looked up and a slow smile spreads across her face. In her eyebrows there's the slightest suggestion of surprise. That Héloïse actually came.

Héloïse manoeuvres through the desks and office chairs without taking her eyes off Marianne. Once she gets close a chair is kicked in her direction. She sits, draws herself closer. From her bag she produces a tupperware container. Napkins: cloth. Real cutlery. They might be at work on Christmas day but they aren't complete heathens.

"Wow. You really went to town."

"I like to do things properly."

"I know. Hi."

"Hello." Héloïse slides the box of pie and napkin bearing the fork across the desk.

"Thank you." Marianne has a forkful, pushes it back.

"It's for you." But there's a look. "Very well, if you insist," and they pass it back and forth.

"I," Héloïse summons herself. "I know we said we weren't going to..." but when she looks up Marianne is grinning back. "Did you get me something?"

"Of course."

"You cheater."

"Says you." Marianne digs about in her backpack. "Here."

Héloïse accepts the tube and admires the wrapping. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Adorably and unnecessarily nervous. 

Unrolling from the paper comes a Thermos flask. 

"Got to keep you sufficiently caffeinated. It's as much for my benefit as yours." Excuses spilling from Marianne. "I'm sorry it's not -"

"It's perfect. Very thoughtful, thank you." 

"I'll take personal charge of your refills."

"You already do." There's more, there's so much more. But Héloïse moves on, pulls an envelope from her pocket. 

Marianne takes it and gives it a little shake by her ear. "Is it a llama?"

"I'm sorry it's not a llama. I think that might have to wait until you retire and get your little farm." 

"I can have a llama then?" 

"I'll get you a llama then." 

The fiddling continues, the envelope being turned over in Marianne's hands. "Is it..."

"You can just open it and find out."

"I'm savouring." 

To think she almost hadn't done this. Almost hadn't bought a present or dared to offer to come today. Almost hadn't taken any of the steps to get to this moment. Where Marianne touches at her name on the envelope then slides a finger under the flap to open it so carefully. As though that were the entire gift and Héloïse knows that it is, in a way, and that does not help her emotional state at all. 

Marianne pulls out the tickets. Héloïse has been noting down names off tapes and scanning listings for weeks. 

"I know it's a bit hit and miss if we're away with work." The same instinct to immediately start backpedalling and preparing excuses. 

"Thank you," Marianne enthuses. "It'll be so much fun. You'll love it."

"That's not why I got two. You can take whoever you like." 

She gets another look. "Héloïse. Of course you are coming. I can't wait to see you at a gig." 

Héloïse breathes. "I'm not dancing."

"It's not really dancing so much as jumping," admits Marianne. And begins to regale Héloïse with stories of past exploits. 

The wastepaper basketball game continues with the occasional muffled roar of delight. The rest of the office envelopes them, standing empty and still. Snowflakes fall past the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brought to you by my favourite _Xena_ episode, A Day in the Life.


End file.
